The Toy Theatre
by Opera Cloak
Summary: What if, instead of being the Phantom, Erik was a famous impresario with complete artistic control over the Paris Opera House? What if he lived above ground and was known to the other characters not as the Opera Ghost, but as a man?
1. Upstaged by a Mechanical Elephant

**Author's note: **My intention in this story is to depart quite significantly from what we learn in the musical in regards to Erik's life before he arrives at the Opera House, with the consequence that he has become a famous impresario, as opposed to the Phantom. This story is almost exclusively based on the Andrew Lloyd Webber stage musical, with some elements taken from the film version. I have also borrowed a minor character from Leroux's novel, who will become a major character in this story. I have also borrowed certain things from other versions of Phantom, such as my use of 'Carriere' as Erik's surname, which is taken from the 1990 TV movie starring Charles Dance.

A note on the timeline: Although it is generally accepted that the year that the events as depicted in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical take place is 1881, for the purposes of this story I am going to set them a little later. In 1881, the Palais Garnier had only been open for seven years, and I wanted my Opera House to have been open a little longer than that.

I hope you enjoy this story. Thanks for reading!

**The Toy Theatre**

**1: Upstaged by a Mechanical Elephant**

_Paris__, 1896_

It was raining again. Paris looked bleak, despite its splendour, and the man in the mask found himself longing for home.

The great impresario made his way carefully over the damp paving stones. He disliked being outside, particularly when the weather was bad. There had been several mornings, recently, when he had simply wanted to stay in bed, or lie on the couch in his sitting room and read the newspaper. But this was not an option. There was work to be done. The Opera needed him.

Erik paused at the theatre's main entrance and closed his umbrella. A billboard on the wall caught his eye. The new posters for _Hannibal _had been put up. He read the names of the performers, just to make sure there were no mistakes.

_The Paris Opera presents _Hannibal_, a new opera in five acts and two ballets. Featuring Carlotta Giudicelli as Elissa and Ubaldo Piangi as Hannibal. Also featuring a magnificent elephant automaton. Music and libretto by H. Chalumeau._

Erik sighed. It was ridiculous, really, that the elephant should get a billing, and he, Erik Carriere, should not. Upstaged by a mechanical elephant! He snorted: this was Monsieur Leferve's doing, no doubt. But Erik knew he had no right to feel bitter. He had a lot to be happy about. After all, he was the impresario who had turned the fortunes of the ailing Opera House around. The last production of the season had played to capacity every evening, and the name of Carlotta Giudicelli, the principal soprano, seemed to be on everyone's lips.

Erik was a success, and he was proud of it. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had thought he would never achieve anything. And yet here he was, the creative director of the greatest Opera House in the world, the owner of this wonderful building in all but name.

Yes, he had a lot to be happy about. He knew what his contribution had been, even though the critics refused to acknowledge the importance of his work.

Erik looked up at the façade of the building and smiled. _This place belongs to me_, he thought. And then, involuntarily, he shuddered.

Sometimes he dreamed about flames creeping up the walls of the theatre and engulfing the red velvet stage curtain. After a nightmare of this sort, he always had to go to the Opera House and make sure it was still standing, regardless of what time it was. He knew this was irrational behaviour, but it was something he had to do for his own peace of mind.

Erik consulted his pocket watch. Today he was holding auditions for the chorus, and it was nearly time to begin. He slipped unseen into the Opera House's entrance foyer and lingered there for a moment. He liked the entrance foyer: it was a place filled with useful shadows, perfect for hiding. At this time of day the room was pleasantly cool, and he could smell the roses in the two large vases placed at either end of the foyer. Later, filled with patrons, the foyer would smell of perfume and tobacco smoke. But by that time he would be somewhere safe.

Erik left the foyer somewhat reluctantly, and walked up the Grand Staircase. His progress went unnoticed by the few early arrivals on their way to the audition. Erik was very good at being invisible. He had cultivated this talent of merging into the background ever since it had become clear that this made life easier. He did not like to invite unwanted attention from those who might consider him ugly. But sometimes, like now, he avoided other people simply out of habit.

He would soon find himself among his employees, where he would be forced to play a different role. But for now Erik moved as silently and discreetly as a ghost through the magnificent theatre over which he had such power.

It was the most important audition of Christine's life, and she was late.

She had no one to blame but herself. For much of the previous night she had been wide awake, rehearsing her audition piece. When she had eventually retired to bed, the music was a continuous presence in her mind, playing itself over and over again, until she had given into exhaustion and had fallen asleep. It was nine 'o clock when she woke up, and she had been obliged to dress very quickly. She practically ran all the way to the Opera House, all the time thinking about her audition piece, whether the song she had chosen was too obscure, whether she was under rehearsed, whether the lack of sleep would adversely affect her voice. Christine had hardly slept for three days.

She put it down to nerves. Christine had wanted to audition for the Paris Opera for almost as long as she could remember. She knew that if she failed, all the work she had done at the conservatoire would be in vain. And her nerves were not soothed by the alarming rumours she had heard about the creative director. Apparently he was rather tyrannical.

Christine finally arrived at the Opera House, out of breath and wishing her audition was over. She ran up the Grand Staircase, almost slipping on the marble steps in her haste, and pushed open a door marked _Amphitheatre_.

She froze for a moment, gazing at the theatre in wonder. The auditorium was even grander than she remembered. Almost without noticing, Christine began to walk down the aisle between the seats, staring at the gold boxes and balconies, the immense chandelier, the painted ceiling…

The ceiling was different from how she remembered it. Only three years earlier this huge, circular canvas had been adorned with Greek gods and goddesses. But someone had painted over this mural, and the ceiling was now a riot of bright colours: yellows and blues and greens. Here and there were things which looked like buildings and human figures…was that a ballerina in a white tutu? Christine could not tell. She had never seen anything like this ceiling before. It was like looking down a kaleidoscope at a complex, colourful pattern, but without the symmetry. It made her feel dizzy.

Someone coughed. Startled, Christine looked towards the stage. There was a young woman standing there. Next to her there was a piano, with a man sitting at it. Both were looking at her pointedly. Christine felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment: she had interrupted the first audition.

She spoke without thinking: "I'm so sorry. Please excuse me."

It was a mistake to speak. Half a dozen seats on the front row were occupied, and the people turned their heads to look at Christine. Then a man stood up and strode down the aisle towards her. Christine had never seen him before, but she knew there was only one person he could possibly be: Erik Carriere, the great impresario.

Christine had heard endless gossip about him at the conservatoire. The general consensus seemed to be that he was a ruthless, intimidating individual with a spectacular temper. It was rumoured that he had once fired a singer on the spot for missing an entrance. And there were other rumours, some trivial, some serious. Depending on whom you consulted, Erik Carriere was French, English, or Scandinavian. He was an aristocrat, or he had grown up in poverty. He was uneducated, self-educated, a scholar. He had bought his way into the Opera House. He had financed the Opera House. He had designed the Opera House. He had _built _the Opera House.

The truth was that no one had a clue where Erik Carriere had come from. For such a famous man, he was remarkably secretive.

And then there was the mask. There were all kinds of rumours concerning what the mask concealed. But the only thing Christine could recall about the mask at that exact moment was the piece of advice her singing tutor had given her when he had learned of her approaching audition: "Never, ever stare at Erik Carriere's mask."

And that was exactly what she was doing.

Christine saw that the famous mask covered just one half of the man's face, leaving the other side visible.

The left side of his face was glaring at her.

"And who are you?" Erik Carriere's voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable note of anger in it.

"I'm here for the auditions." Her voice shook.

The man produced a watch, which he studied intently for a moment, before slipping it back into the pocket of his velvet waistcoat.

"You are precisely six and a half minutes late," he said.

"I'm sorry," Christine repeated. "I was-"

"Please don't waste my time with your excuses," said Erik, waving a hand dismissively. "I can't abide listening to excuses."

Christine realised there were tears in her eyes. Everything about this man, every word, every gesture, spoke of power and arrogance. His lips were pressed together in a disapproving grimace. Christine noticed that they seemed to twist oddly at one corner as they disappeared beneath his mask. He was a tall man and solidly built. He was every bit as intimidating as the rumours had suggested, and the effect was heightened by the fact that he was dressed from head to toe in black. Christine looked down at the floor, as she so often did when she was nervous. She was not reassured by the sight of Erik Carriere's shoes, which were highly polished patent leathers, the shoes of a wealthy man.

"I'm so sorry I disturbed you," she said. "I was so busy looking at the ceiling that I forgot my manners. It's beautiful. The ceiling, I mean. Very silly of me…"

Christine realised she was babbling. How stupid. But as she waited for the impresario to dismiss her, something strange happened. Risking a glance upwards, she saw that Monsieur Carriere's expression had softened. The glare vanished, and his eyes seemed to light up. He had very striking eyes. They were a very pale brown, almost gold.

"What's your name, Mademoiselle?" he asked, in a gentler voice.

"Christine Daae, sir."

Without taking his eyes off Christine, Erik addressed one of the people on the front row. "Madame Giry. May I have the list, please?"

A woman rose from her chair and approached him. She was also dressed in black, and her dark hair was tied back in a neat bun. She handed Erik a sheet of paper. Christine watched as Erik's eyes followed the lines of writing.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Daae. Soprano. Twenty-one years of age. Recently graduated from the conservatoire, where she won a prize. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir."

"I assume the prize wasn't for time-keeping?"

There were chuckles in the auditorium. Christine felt herself blushing again.

"I'm sorry."

"No more apologies, please. Go and wait backstage until your name is called. Madame Giry, show Miss Daae the way."

"This way, my dear," said Madame Giry. Christine followed her up some steps at one side of the stage. The young woman whom Christine had interrupted glared at her resentfully. Christine lowered her eyes, and followed Madame Giry to a room backstage.

"Wait here, please," said Madame Giry.

Christine sat down on a wooden bench and looked around the room. It was a very plain room, intimidating in its blankness. There were around twenty other people in there. Some of them were reading musical scores. All of them looked as nervous as Christine was feeling. No one said anything.

Christine was among the last of the singers to be called. She had been waiting nearly an hour and a half, staring at the bottle green walls in silence, unable to think of anything but her music. She watched as the singers left, one by one. And then suddenly it was her turn.

Madame Giry appeared in the doorway. "Christine Daae. Come through, please."

When Christine found herself back on the stage, her legs started to shake. Viewed from the stage, the auditorium appeared vast. The dark figure of Erik Carriere stood in the centre of the stalls, his hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him.

"Give your music to Monsieur Reyer," said Erik, gesturing towards the man at the piano.

Like Erik, Monsieur Reyer was pale and dark-haired. Unlike Erik he was brightly dressed in a paisley-patterned jacket and cravat. Christine handed him her sheet music. Reyer looked at it and frowned.

"Is there a problem?" asked Erik.

Reyer shook his head. "No."

"Then why the delay?"

Reyer turned to Erik with a strained smile.

"I think we should take a short break," he said.

"Why, what's the matter?" Erik sounded suspicious.

"Nothing. I just need a moment to look through the music. It's new to me."

Christine felt her heart sink. So the song she had chosen was too obscure, after all. She'd suspected as much, but she could sing it so well that her tutor at the conservatoire had persuaded her to use it.

"I'd rather get on with it, Reyer, if you don't mind," said Erik. "If you don't think you can manage the piece, I'll come up and play it for you."

"No," said Reyer. "No, it's all right. I'll play it."

Reyer began to play. Christine began to sing. The conversation had made her even more nervous and her voice was not at its best. But it turned out that she did not have time to make any serious mistakes.

"Stop!"

Erik's voice seemed to echo around the auditorium. Christine stopped singing.

Erik walked towards the stage until he was standing just beneath Christine. He looked up at her, his eyes cold.

"Where did you get that music?" he asked.

"My singing teacher gave it to me," said Christine. She was still afraid, but now she was angry as well. How dare he interrupt her only half way through the first verse! Surely her voice wasn't that bad?

Erik continued to stare at her with those razor sharp eyes. "That music is childish and uninspired. I don't ever want to hear it again."

Christine thought there was something strange about the way he spoke these last words, as though he was reciting them from memory, and he didn't really believe what he was saying.

"I think it's rather beautiful," she said.

Now the visible half of Erik's face looked almost puzzled.

"Really? You think it's beautiful?"

Christine nodded. "It's one of my favourite pieces. My singing teacher said it suited my voice very well."

The corner of Erik's mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly, in a smile. But the smile vanished immediately, and his eyes grew cold again.

"Your singing teacher is a fool," he said. Then he turned to Reyer. "I think we will take a short break after all. I would like you to find something else for Miss Daae to sing. Auditions will resume in twenty minutes."

Christine looked at Reyer for help. She wanted to say that she couldn't possibly learn a new song in twenty minutes, but she didn't have the courage. Fortunately, Reyer spoke on her behalf.

"With all due respect," he said, rising from the piano stool, "I think that's unfair on Miss Daae. How can she be expected to learn a new piece in twenty minutes?"

"Any fool can learn a song in twenty minutes, Reyer," growled Erik.

"Why can't she just sing what she's rehearsed? What harm can it do?"

Erik gave the accompanist a withering stare, to which Reyer was apparently immune. At last Erik sighed.

"Very well," he said. "From the beginning of the aria, please."

Christine smiled at Erik in gratitude, but he did not acknowledge her. He returned to his chair in the middle of the stalls.

Reyer began the accompaniment again, and Christine sang. By the end of the second verse, she thought she was doing quite well, and she risked a glance in Erik's direction, just to see his reaction. What she saw would continue to puzzle her for weeks to come.

Erik's head was bowed, and he was cradling it in his hands. Christine thought she could see his shoulders shaking. It looked as though the man was crying, but of course that couldn't possibly be the case.

The song came to an end. There was polite applause from Reyer and Madame Giry. Erik did not applaud. Instead he stood up, and walked unsteadily towards the aisle.

"You'll have to excuse me," he said. "I don't feel quite myself."

Without a single glance at the baffled Christine, he hurried up the aisle and left the auditorium. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

"Did I do something wrong?" asked Christine.

"No," said Reyer.

"You did well," Madame Giry added.

Christine wanted to ask what was wrong with Monsieur Carriere. She felt somehow responsible for his sudden departure. Madame Giry seemed to read her thoughts, because she smiled at her kindly.

"It's just his way, dear. He's rather eccentric. You'll get used to him after a while."

But Christine doubted that she would have the opportunity to grow accustomed to Erik's strange ways. He clearly disliked her, and had done so from the moment she arrived.

Christine was nearly in tears when she left the Opera House. She did not expect to return.

**Author's Note: **In reality, the classical design of the ceiling in the Paris Opera's auditorium remained in place until the 1960s. Then this original ceiling was covered by a false ceiling, painted by Marc Chagall. This modern ceiling is the inspiration for the ceiling in my story. I know I'm playing fast and loose with history here, but I've always like the new ceiling, and I quite like the idea that Erik himself designed parts of the Opera House in this story, including its rather modern ceiling.


	2. A Difficult Decision

**Author's Note: **Thank you very much to all those who read and reviewed the first chapter. I really appreciate the support and feedback. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**The Toy Theatre**

**Chapter 2: A Difficult Decision**

Erik removed his mask and pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket.

He was shocked to find himself crying. Erik never cried, at least not officially. He had seen actors, musicians, and other impresarios cry in public, usually on first nights when emotions were running high, but not him. He usually took great pains to hide his feelings.

Erik wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. He was just a little shaken, that was all. Anyone would be, in his position, after hearing that song for the first time in so many years. A few tears were perfectly natural, and nothing at all to worry about.

"Oh, pull yourself together," he said aloud. "You're Erik Carriere!"

There was a knock on the door. Erik stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket, replaced his mask, smoothed down the wayward hairs of his wig, sat up straight, and pretended to study the notes he had made during the auditions.

"Come in," he said. Fortunately, his voice didn't tremble.

The door opened. Erik looked up from his notes and into the furious face of Monsieur Lefèvre.

"What do you think you're doing?" growled Lefèvre.

Erik suppressed a groan. Lefèvre was the Opera House's business manager. Although technically Erik was his superior, Lefèvre always made it quite clear that he viewed Erik as a rather troublesome lodger, the sort who played the piano loudly and at all hours (which he did) and who was incurably untidy (which he was).

Fortunately, Erik knew the importance of good manners.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Lefèvre. I hope you're well."

Lefèvre ignored the pleasantry and sank into an armchair. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

"And naturally the last place you decide to look is my office," said Erik.

"You're hardly ever in your office, except when you're supposed to be somewhere else. This morning, for instance, you were supposed to be watching the auditions."

Erik felt a pang of shame. His behaviour had been unprofessional, and he knew it.

"I left because I felt that my time could be better spent elsewhere."

"They said you left suddenly, while a girl was singing. Madame Giry said that you looked upset."

Erik sighed. "Did she?"

Lefèvre grinned. "Surely the girl wasn't as dreadful as all that?"

Erik shook his head. "No, her voice was…" he paused, searching for an appropriate adjective "…good."

"Then what was the problem?"

Erik looked down at his notes, so as to avoid meeting Lefèvre's eyes. He knew he couldn't admit that he had been moved by Christine Daae's voice. He would never live it down.

"There was no problem, Lefèvre. I just felt unwell. I'm better now."

Lefèvre eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Then, to Erik's vast relief, he let the subject drop.

"I'm glad to hear it. I've instructed Remy to invite the two singers you didn't manage to hear to sing for you tomorrow at 3.00pm. I hope that's convenient for you."

Erik nodded. "Yes, that's fine."

Lefèvre rose from the armchair and began to pace around the office. His pacing made Erik uneasy. He disliked Lefèvre coming into his office at the best of times, but today he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from directly asking the manager to go away. Instead he remained silent, drumming his fingers against the polished surface of the desk.

Lefèvre paused in front of Erik's upright piano. He reached forward and pressed a key absently, then another. Erik cringed. He hoped Lefèvre was not going to try to play anything. Erik disliked amateur musicians on principle, and in his view Lefèvre was about as amateur as they came.

Fortunately, Lefèvre seemed to lose interest in the piano. He turned to look at Erik. His face was grave.

"What is it?" Erik asked, worried by the man's expression.

Lefèvre sighed. "I met the Comte de Chagny in the Foyer de la Danse last night. He's becoming impatient."

Erik snorted. "Is the man ever anything else? What's the matter with him now?"

"He wants us to premiere a new opera."

"What sort of opera?"

"He said he was recently in attendance at the Savoy Theatre in London, and he's very impressed with the works of Gilbert and Sullivan. He tells me that he's sick and tired of operas which end miserably. He would like us to premiere a comic opera."

Erik frowned.

"His words, not mine," Lefèvre added.

"And where do you think we'll find this hypothetical opera? Does the Count have any ideas?"

Lefèvre suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He stared down at the floor.

"He says he's written something which might be suitable," he murmured.

Erik stared at Lefèvre, his mouth wide open. "What?"

"The Count has written an opera. And he says he would love the great Erik Carriere to stage it."

"And what is this opera about, dare I ask?"

Monsieur Lefèvre pointed to a large leather portfolio on Erik's desk. In his distracted frame of mind, Erik had failed to notice the de Chagny coat of arms stamped into the leather.

"I had Remy bring it in this morning," said Lefèvre. "I hope you don't mind."

With a sigh, Erik opened the portfolio and took out a rather thin manuscript.

"Not very long, is it?"

"It's just the first act, Erik. There will be five acts in total."

"Heaven help us."

Erik looked down at the first page of the manuscript. "Il Muto. By Philippe, Comte de Chagny. An Opera-Mime in five acts. An Opera-Mime? What's an Opera-Mime?"

Lefèvre grinned. "You'll see."

Erik began to read the synopsis. "The opera is set in the grand house of the Countess de - (Soprano). She has fallen in love with her pageboy, Serafimo (A female role). However, Serafimo has been mute since birth and can only communicate in mime, making this the perfect role for a ballerina..." Erik stopped reading. "Oh dear."

Lefèvre looked at Erik quizzically. "What is it?"

"I'll say this about the Comte de Chagny," said Erik. "He's certainly persistent. He wants me to make Sorelli a star of the Opera, and he's managed to get around the small problem posed by her inability to sing in a most inventive fashion."

Lefèvre laughed, and Erik glared at him.

"I don't see why it's so amusing. It never ceases to amaze me what fools men become when they fall in love," Erik shook his head wonderingly. "I can't possibly stage this. I'd be a laughing stock. I suppose you told him I rarely stage work by unknown composers?"

Lefèvre looked at him incredulously. "But Erik, surely we should make an exception in this case? After all, he's the Comte de Chagny…"

Erik lost his temper, and slammed his fist down on the desk. "And I'm the director of the Paris Opera House!"

"He's our most powerful patron…"

"It doesn't matter. I won't allow myself to be bullied into staging his work."

"But the Count's hardly an unknown composer, Erik. He's written several popular love songs and a concerto."

"Ah, yes. The concerto. Don't remind me."

"Anyway, he wants you to look at his opera and give him your honest opinion. He says he trusts your judgement."

"I should hope he does." Erik rose from his chair. "Now will that be all?"

Lefèvre nodded and turned towards the door. Then he paused and turned back to look at Erik.

"Erik, you are aware of the importance of the de Chagny patronage, aren't you?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm all too well aware of it. Thank you."

"Then whatever you think of the Count's music, please be polite. I know you have a low opinion of him, but he's a good man really, and we want him on our side."

"You can rest assured that I'll behave in a civilised manner," said Erik. "Good day."

Lefèvre finally left the office. Erik breathed a sigh of relief, took out his handkerchief again, and buried his face in it. He was tired, incredibly tired, and he wasn't sure why. He wanted to find somewhere dark and cool, a place where he could hide, albeit briefly, from the demands of the day.

There was a knock on the door. Erik braced himself for another visit from the tiresome Lefèvre. Perhaps the manager had neglected to tell him some detail about the Count and his wretched ideas.

"Come in," he said.

Fortunately, this time it was a more welcome visitor: Monsieur Remy, Erik's acutely nervous secretary.

"Hello, Remy," Erik said. "How are you today?"

The young secretary gave Erik a look of undisguised fear. Whatever Erik said to Remy, the effect was always the same. Erik had found there were certain people who were naturally fearful of him, and nothing he said or did seemed to convert them. Erik feared that Remy would not stay long, which was a shame. He liked the young secretary: he was polite and efficient, and he never tried to play Erik's piano.

Erik smiled at him encouragingly, and this finally loosened Remy's tongue.

"I'm very well, thank you." The secretary placed a pile of envelopes on Erik's desk. "There's a lot of private mail for you today."

"Yes," said Erik. "So there is. Thank you Remy."

Remy couldn't leave the office quickly enough. Erik was left alone again. He looked down at the envelopes. There were three particularly large, thick ones. He knew what they were immediately.

As Erik's reputation as an impresario had grown, composers had started sending him examples of their work. Hardly a day went by when there wasn't a large envelope waiting for him on his desk. Most of the work was mundane and unimpressive, but Erik made an effort to look through every manuscript, because sometimes genuinely talented composers sent their music to him.

Today, however, Erik did not feel like looking through compositions. He feared they would remind him of his own aborted efforts. He had already had enough of that for one day, when Miss Daae had performed one of his own songs, a sentimental piece of youthful earnestness which he had hoped never to encounter again.

Erik looked at the notes he had managed to make before he had been obliged to run from the auditorium in tears. He noticed that his handwriting became increasingly untidy as the song had continued.

He had written: _Began off-key: nervous? Good voice which could improve greatly with experience. Currently lacking in power and support. Lower notes too quiet. High notes fairly harsh._

And then, at the bottom of the page: _More training required. _

Erik reread the notes once again. They were hardly remarks which indicated that he had made a great discovery. But he had a feeling about Miss Daae. There was something about her which showed potential, although he could not pinpoint exactly what it was. And then there had been his extreme reaction to her voice.

It had been so long since a voice had moved him to tears.

Perhaps it was the sadness in her voice, and the honesty. Unlike the great Carlotta, Christine was not a natural exhibitionist, and probably not a natural actress. And yet Erik could tell that she was someone who felt music deeply, someone who believed in the power it possessed. She was the complete opposite of the Comte de Chagny, despite his apparent musical knowledge.

And yet she seemed so inexperienced, so lacking in confidence and self-belief. Why, she was almost like…

Stop right there, Erik.

He knew he was being unprofessional, allowing his emotions to cloud his judgement. Christine Daae's voice was good. It might turn out to be excellent. He could be doing her, and the Opera, a great disservice by not hiring her. After all, what had really happened? The girl's voice had touched him. Wasn't that what music was supposed to do?

Erik decided he would cast Christine in the chorus, and see how things progressed. He would ask Remy to write to her and offer her a job.

After all, it was one of his many duties, to identify new talent.


	3. First Rehearsal

**3: First Rehearsal**

Christine could hardly believe it. She had been so sure, after the disaster of her audition, that she had ruined her chances. Far from it: she was now officially an employee of the Paris Opera House. She had been cast in Erik Carriere's production of a brand new opera, _Hannibal_, by Chalumeau.

To be precise, she was playing a slave girl in a chorus of twelve. It wasn't exactly the realisation of all her dreams, but it was at least a good start.

So early one morning, just over a week after her audition, Christine found herself standing on the stage of the Paris Opera House surrounded by singers and dancers and pieces of half-painted scenery. There was a tense, excited atmosphere on the stage, as though everyone was awaiting an important announcement. Christine glanced around, trying to spot any familiar faces from the audition.

"Christine? Christine Daae?"

A young woman had detached herself from a group of performers and was walking towards her. She was shorter than Christine and had long, curly blonde hair. The girl looked vaguely familiar, but for a moment Christine couldn't think of her name, or where she had seen her before. Fortunately, the girl noticed her confusion, and smiled.

"Christine, it's me, Meg."

Christine had known Meg briefly at the conservatoire, during the period when she had deluded herself that she might be able to learn the art of ballet. They had taken two or three classes together, and Meg, a promising dancer even then, had attempted to help Christine master some tricky steps. Then Christine had given up on ballet, and she hadn't seen Meg since. Christine was surprised Meg remembered her.

"Meg!" she said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't recognise you."

"No one does when I'm not wearing a tutu," said Meg. She laughed lightly. "My mother said you'd auditioned."

"Your mother?"

"Madame Giry. She's the ballet mistress here. She told me that Monsieur Carriere gave you a hard time."

Christine looked down at the floor. "Yes, I suppose he did."

Meg smiled. "Well, you're here, so he must think you did something right. Oh, look out: here he comes."

Christine watched as Erik mounted the steps at the right side of the stage. He was wearing his black suit again, his white mask standing out in sharp contrast against his darkly clad figure. Christine sidled closer to Meg.

"Does he always wear it?" she whispered.

"What?"

For a moment Christine thought Meg must be joking, deliberately faking puzzlement. Surely she hadn't failed to notice Erik's most glaring characteristic?

"Oh!" said Meg. "You mean the mask! It's so easy to forget when you're used to it. Yes, he wears it all the time." Her voice became low and serious, and she glanced discreetly in Erik's direction. "But you must never mention it in front of him."

Christine watched Erik's progress across the stage. The performers greeted him with cheerful good mornings, as if a man wearing a mask was the most common and natural sight in the world.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Christine asked.

"The mask? Of course not. Why should it?"

Christine wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I find it rather peculiar."

"Don't ever let him hear you say that," whispered Meg. "He'd be very upset. Mother found him crying once, in Box Five. Someone had published a caricature of him in one of the newspapers, I think it was _Le Epoque_. Poor Monsieur Carriere took it very badly. I think he likes to forget about the mask."

"I heard he once fired someone for asking about it."

Meg frowned. "That's a lie! They're always spreading cruel rumours about him. He would never do a thing like that."

"I'm sorry," said Christine, taken aback by Meg's protective attitude towards her employer. For a small blonde ballerina, she looked remarkably fierce.

"It's all right," said Meg, relaxing. "You weren't to know. But people can be so cruel to him at times, and he's been very kind to mother and me."

"Does your mother know him well?" said Christine, remembering the tall, stern figure of Madame Giry.

"Yes, I suppose so. Shush!"

Erik had reached their side of the stage. He paused in front of them and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Good morning, Monsieur Carriere," said Meg.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Giry," Erik replied. "You did very well in the ballet last week. It's about time you danced a solo. We must discuss it with your mother later."

Meg's hand flew to her mouth in surprise. "Thank you Monsieur Carriere!"

Erik turned his masked face towards Christine. "Good morning, Mademoiselle Daae. You're on time today, I see. That's good."

Then he strode away before Christine was able to reply. She glanced embarrassedly at Meg, and saw that the girl's shoulders were shaking.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," said Meg. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at him. He's so predictable. He never forgets anything. Don't worry, Christine. He's only joking."

"How can you tell? He always sounds so serious."

Meg looked at her darkly, her eyes narrowing.

"You can tell, because if he was really angry with you, you'd know about it."

Christine shivered. In that moment, she promised herself that she would never do anything to make Erik angry.

Suddenly, a loud but beautiful voice rose above the babble of conversation. Erik was now standing just behind the footlights at the front of the stage, next to Monsieur Reyer and a man whom Christine had never seen before.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to our first rehearsal for _Hannibal_. Thank you for getting here so promptly, and please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. I would like to introduce you to some key members of the company, for the benefit of those who have just joined us. Most of you will have already met Monsieur Reyer, our chie répétiteur, at your auditions, and this gentleman beside me is Hector Chalumeau, the composer of this great work."

Erik indicated a tall man with white hair, who gave an elaborate bow.

"Choreography, as ever, will be by the highly capable Madame Giry," Erik continued. "Our stage manager for this production is Monsieur Mercier, so please see him if you have any problems involving disappearing properties. Onto the cast. As I'm sure most of you know, the role of Hannibal will be sung by Ubaldo Piangi, and the role of Elissa by Carlotta Giudicelli."

Although the casting of Carlotta and Piangi had already been made public, the mention of their names still led to an increase in the volume and excitement of talk among the company. Christine could still hardly believe she would be performing on the same stage as the great Carlotta.

Ever since her very first visit to the Paris Opera House, Christine had idolised Carlotta. The diva had an extraordinary soprano voice, and Christine longed to be able to sing just like her. The range and power of Carlotta's voice was something Christine never seriously imagined she would emulate, but Carlotta remained her role model, her inspiration. And now she would have the opportunity to perform alongside her. She glanced around the assembled company, trying to locate the prima donna.

Erik turned to Reyer with a frown.

"Where are Carlotta and Ubaldo, incidentally?"

Reyer shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. Erik glowered at each member of the company in turn.

"Well?" he said. "Any suggestions?"

There were a few titters from the youngest members of the corps de ballet.

Erik sighed deeply. "It appears that our stars are late once again. Apparently they consider themselves to be above such trivialities as rehearsal."

Meg nudged Christine. "That's true."

Erik surveyed the chorus.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to need two volunteers," he raised his hand to indicate an apprehensive youth who was shaking his head wildly and trying to hide behind an artificial palm tree. "Yes, Anatole Garron, you'll do. Thank you for being so quick to volunteer. I beg your pardon? Yes, Anatole. I know you're a baritone, but never mind. We can't all be tenors and there's nothing like a challenge, is there? Good. Now we just need a soprano…"

Erik extended a long white finger. Christine glanced over her shoulder, and realised with a jolt that there was no one standing behind her.

"You mean me?" she gasped.

Erik nodded. "Certainly. What's the matter? You look nervous."

Despite her fear, Christine knew this was a chance to impress, to prove that Erik had been right to hire her after such a mediocre audition. She shook her head.

"Nothing. I'm fine, thank you."

Erik gave her a slight smile. "Good. Now I would like to begin with Hannibal's entrance. Reyer, please take it from _'These trophies from our saviours…'_ Page fifteen of your score, Miss Daae. Are you ready?"

Christine cleared her throat and nodded. She was aware of the other members of the company staring at her, and wondered briefly whether they were willing her to succeed, or hoping she would fail. She looked at Meg, who gave her a supportive smile.

She heard the song emerge from her throat, but to her ears it sounded strangely distant, quiet and muffled, a voice carried on the wind. It was just one phrase, but it was enough. She blushed and looked at Erik, who was regarding her with something approaching pity.

"Thank you, Miss Daae," he said. "You will need to be louder in future."

As he watched the rest of the morning's rehearsal from the relative peace of Box Five, one thought occupied Erik's mind.

He would need to have a serious word with Christine Daae's singing teacher. Whoever the fool was, he was clearly a complete amateur who had not taught his pupil how to project her voice. He could not understand how a prize-winning student of opera could fail to deliver a simple phrase of music so spectacularly. It was true that her voice had lacked support during her audition, but at least she had been audible. Unless her nerves were already getting the better of her.

Erik was greatly troubled by the thought that he had been wrong. Perhaps that song, that music from his past, had blinded him to the truth. Perhaps she simply wasn't good enough.

"Anything wrong, old fellow?" said a voice by Erik's ear. "You're being very quiet today."

The voice belonged to Hector Chalumeau, the Opera House's composer-in-residence, who insisted on being present for every rehearsal. He was nearly twenty years older than Erik, in his late fifties. In his youth he had been the star tenor at the old opera house on the Rue le Peletier, very handsome and popular with female patrons. After the old theatre burned to the ground, he had devoted a long period of unemployment to writing his own operatic works. Philippe de Chagny was something of a fan of his and had introduced him to Erik, persuading him that his dramatic and romantic operas would be perfect for his first season as director. Grudgingly, Erik was forced to admit that, for once, Monsieur le Comte had been right.

Normally Erik resented Hector's presence in Box Five, but today he was almost relieved to have a fellow musician to talk to.

"I think I've made a mistake," he said.

Hector's eyes glittered with amusement. "A mistake? You? Never!"

"I think I've cast someone who isn't ready to perform in front of an audience," Erik continued, ignoring Hector's mischievous tone.

"Who?"

Erik sighed. "Christine Daae. The girl who stood in for Carlotta earlier. What do you think of her?"

The composer smiled. "I think you need to give her a chance. She's only new, I suppose?"

"It's her first rehearsal."

Hector rolled his eyes. "Well, then! What do you expect? You probably put far too much pressure on the girl. Carlotta is a formidable talent to live up to, don't you agree?"

This was quite possibly true. Erik realised he had wanted Christine Daae to burst onto the stage in a blaze of talent, a star already, even though her entire demeanour was that of an inexperienced, nervous chorus girl, which was precisely what she was.

"You think I'm being unreasonable," he said.

Hector laughed. "You're expectations are far too high, as usual. You should relax a bit more. Enjoy yourself." The composer's expression became suddenly wistful. "I remember when I was young, at the old opera house. I drank champagne after every performance, and went to dances and dined at all the best restaurants. You should try it yourself. Go to the bistro sometimes after first nights, that sort of thing."

Erik snorted. "Perhaps if I was sure I wouldn't bump into the Comte de Chagny."

Hector raised an eyebrow. "Now, now. He's not that bad. He paid for the mechanical elephant…"

"Which keeps breaking down."

Hector looked ready to defend the troublesome elephant, but to Erik's relief he was prevented from saying anything more by a commotion on the stage.

Erik peered over the ledge of Box Five and saw that Carlotta had arrived, complete with her entourage.

"Oh, no," groaned Hector. "She's brought that wretched dog again."

Carlotta was holding a miniature poodle under her arm. The singers who had been rehearsing only moments ago left what they were doing and ran to Carlotta with words of welcome. Carlotta beamed at them and put the little black poodle on the floor, where it was promptly surrounded by a dozen cooing chorus girls.

"Really," grumbled Hector. "I don't know why you put up with it."

Erik smiled. He put up with Carlotta's dog for the same reason he tolerated Hector's presence in Box Five during rehearsals: Carlotta was a valuable member of the company, and he wanted to keep her happy. Besides, Erik quite liked the dog, not least because it was also called Erik, in a tribute which had touched Erik while also leaving him feeling mildly insulted. Having a diva's poodle named after you wasn't exactly the most flattering of tributes.

"Excuse me, Hector, I must go and speak to her," he said, glad to have an excuse to leave the box.

Onstage, Erik found Carlotta talking to Reyer. He waited for a pause in their conversation, and coughed politely.

Carlotta turned around, and her face was lit up by a broad smile.

"Erik!" she said, grasping his hands and squeezing them. "I'm so pleased to see you. And you are pleased to see me, yes?"

"Yes," said Erik, sounding less pleased than he actually felt. Then, accusingly: "You're late."

"I'm so sorry," Carlotta said. "I was simply exhausted! That opera house in England…you have no idea! And those managers…" she shook her head. "Not as good as our Erik. I will never tour again, do you hear me? Never! But what is this?" She was looking at Erik closely, her eyes showing concern. "So pale! What is wrong?"

"Nothing," said Erik. "Just a little tired."

"Well, never mind," said Carlotta. "I am back now. I will keep order!"

Erik smiled again. Carlotta's presence in the Opera House generally added more chaos to proceedings, rather than calming things down. Carlotta had always seen herself as superior to the other singers, particularly those in the chorus. From a professional point of view, Erik knew she was right, but this also gave her a tendency to boss the other performers around and try to run Erik's rehearsals for him. Despite their affection for each other, there had been many arguments between Carlotta and Erik, because they both thought they knew best.

There was a growling sound by Erik's feet. He looked down. Erik the poodle was staring at him with a pair of glassy black eyes.

"Erik, say hello to Erik," said Carlotta.

Erik reached down and patted Erik Two on the head. Erik Two gave a low growl.

"He's pleased to see you!" said Carlotta. She scooped Erik Two into her arms, where he growled some more. "You must tell me later about all that's happened while I've been away. But first you must start the rehearsal again." She clapped her hands together and raised her voice. "Everyone be very quiet! We are going to start the rehearsal again!"

"I can take it from here, thank you," said Erik, feeling the first pangs of irritation at Carlotta's intervention.

Things progressed quite smoothly after that. Erik strode confidently around the stage, informing Carlotta and Piangi in mildly chastising tones that occasionally the drama required them to sing and move at the same time. He re-orchestrated several passages of the score (much to Hector's chagrin), showed the stagehands how to operate the mechanical elephant, and confiscated the bottles of beer they had smuggled into the rehearsal.

The Opera House was Erik's sanctuary. Whenever he was busy like this, caught up in a world of musical notation and missing stage props, a change would come over him. For a short time, he was able to forget that he was different from these people, Carlotta and Piangi and Madame Giry and Meg, that his disfigurement would forever set him apart from them, that he wore a mask.

Today was different. Today something was breaking the illusion. That something was Christine Daae. Whenever he caught sight of her, his mask became painfully real to him again. Each time he saw her, he would turn his face away, wondering why he suddenly felt so shy.

Author's note: Thank you to all those who read and reviewed. I'm sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. The next one should be a lot quicker. I hope you're still enjoying the story, and thanks again for reading. Please review!


	4. Curtain Up on Hannibal

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. As always, I really appreciate any feedback, so please leave a review. I hope you enjoy!

**4: Curtain up on Hannibal**

It was opening night, and the curtain was about to rise on _Hannibal _for the very first time.

Erik sat as far back in Box Five as he could while still being able to see the stage. He was trying his hardest to remain hidden from the patrons who were taking their seats in the auditorium. It was tempting to draw the curtains across the front of the box, but Erik liked to keep an eye on the stage and the orchestra pit, just in case there were any problems. Despite his determination not to be seen, he still liked to take pride in his appearance when attending performances, especially on a first night, and he was dressed in his finest evening suit.

He consulted his pocket watch for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. It was five minutes to seven. Five minutes until curtain up, practically an eternity.

Erik looked at the red stage curtain wistfully. It was a ridiculous notion, but he wished he was backstage, waiting to make his entrance. Or, failing that, he wished he could at least help the stagehands change the scenery. He wished he was anywhere in the Opera House other than Box Five.

This was one of the things he disliked about being the creative director: as soon as a production opened, he felt useless. He still had duties, of course. He had to speak to the patrons after the opera, for example, and thank them for their support. But the artistic side of things was no longer within his control. For once, he had to let the opera happen without his interference.

The lack of power made him nervous. He wished it was all over.

There was a knock on the door of the box. Erik turned to see Madame Giry standing in the doorway.

"Good evening, Erik," she said.

Erik didn't think it was a good evening at all. He wanted to be alone.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

Madame Giry didn't even blink. She was used to hearing Erik talk like this on first nights. She knew he suffered from nerves, and she understood why. Erik liked to be in control. It was hard for him to let a production go. She knew he would be fine once the opera was over, but before a performance he was best avoided. She had been reluctant to seek him out, but she had had no choice: the Count had been most insistent.

"The Chagnys are here," she said.

"Oh, no," Erik groaned. "All of them?"

"No, just the Count and the Viscount. But they haven't taken their seats yet. They're still in the foyer."

Erik rolled his eyes irritably. The Chagnys usually entered their box shortly after the overture. Despite the Count's musical ambitions, his family were the sort of people who came to the opera to see and be seen, and to meet with friends, not to listen to music.

"Philippe de Chagny asked me to give you this."

The ballet mistress handed him an envelope with the Chagny seal on it. He slit it open with the letter knife which she had thoughtfully provided.

_Dear Erik,_

_I would like to request the pleasure of your company at a little get-together after the performance. We're having dinner at the Café de l'Opera. I have a few things I would like to discuss with you regarding the next opera season, and it's been so long since we had a proper chat. _

_May I congratulate you in advance for what I'm sure will be yet another successful premiere here at the Paris Opera._

_I look forward to seeing you. _

_Kind regards,_

_Philippe _

Erik looked at the note thoughtfully. Then he sighed. "I suppose it would be rude to refuse."

Madame Giry stared at him. "Surely you're not going?"

Erik shrugged. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Madame Giry gave him a sympathetic look, and left the box.

Erik disliked parties, especially when they were hosted by Philippe de Chagny. But one of the drawbacks of Erik's job was that he occasionally had to socialise with people he found unpleasant, and Philippe de Chagny was the Opera's wealthiest patron. _Hannibal _would not have been possible without him.

However, Erik was soon distracted from thinking about the Chagnys, because Monsieur Gabriel, the conductor, had taken his place on the podium and the orchestra played the first note of the overture. The opera had begun.

It took Erik only ten minutes to realise that he was pleased with the production. The score was a strong one, and the sets and costumes were as spectacular as everyone had come to expect from the Paris Opera.

Carlotta was in fine voice. Erik was relieved, because her behaviour in rehearsals had been causing him some concern. Over the last week she had seemed more irritable, but also more distracted than usual. But tonight she was on top form.

However, everything changed after the interval, when Carlotta had her first scene with Piangi. Elissa was bidding Hannibal farewell as he prepared to leave for battle. It was supposed to be a serious moment in the drama, but Erik was certain he saw Carlotta smiling at Piangi. And at one point, he thought he saw Piangi wink at her.

In act three, Carlotta seemed to remember that she had an audience. She threw herself into her part, and sang her love aria as if she really was in love. Erik was surprised: he had never seen Carlotta perform with such sincerity before. Despite his delight at the diva's performance, there was also a slight feeling of unease at the back of his mind, a feeling which he could not explain. He could sense that there was something strange going on here, something which he, Erik, the director of the Opera House, knew nothing about.

The opera came to an end. There was a standing ovation. Erik slumped back into his armchair with relief. Apparently _Hannibal _was a success.

Erik hesitated at the entrance to the Café de l'Opera, wondering if he should leave and write to Philippe de Chagny later to apologise for his absence. The café was brightly lit, and Erik could hear music, or something resembling music: a violin and an accordion. The place looked crowded. Erik did not like crowds. He always had the feeling that everyone was looking at him and speculating on the reason he wore a mask.

Suddenly the door was thrown open and Philippe de Chagny stepped out onto the street. Erik cursed under his breath: the man must have spotted him through the window.

"Erik!" exclaimed the Count. He was a handsome, fair-haired man, with a certain hardness around his bright blue eyes which was evident even when he smiled. He grinned at Erik and gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Welcome! I'm so pleased you could come."

"Thank you for your invitation," Erik said helplessly. Philippe practically pushed him across the threshold of the café.

"Make way for the director of the Opera!" Philippe bellowed. His voice was so loud that everyone turned to look at them. Erik felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Make way for the genius who brought _Hannibal _to the stage!"

This earned a cheer. Erik looked in the direction the sound had come from, and saw most of the cast gathered around three circular tables. He gritted his teeth. So much for being inconspicuous.

"You must sit at our table," Philippe said, ushering him towards the rear of the restaurant "Waiter! Bring some champagne for Erik Carriere. Do you like lobster?"

Erik's feelings towards lobster were rather ambivalent, but he suspected that it would make no difference whether or not he replied in the affirmative. If the Count wanted to give him lobster, then lobster was what he would have.

"Very much," he said uncertainly.

"Do sit down," said the Count, gesturing towards an empty chair at the nearest table. The other seats were occupied by a pale young man Erik vaguely recognised as the younger Chagny brother, and Hector Chalumeau. Apparently Philippe had also managed to capture the opera's composer in residence in addition to Erik himself. He looked around for Carlotta and Piangi, but evidently they had escaped the Count's hospitable clutches.

Erik sat down next to Hector. He turned to the composer and smiled. "Congratulations, Monsieur Chalumeau. _Hannibal_ is a fine opera."

Hector smiled. "Thank you, Erik. And I wish you would call me Hector, given everything we've just been through together. I was convinced that the damned elephant was going to break down again."

Erik laughed.

"I'll have you know I paid for that elephant," said Philippe, looking at Erik meaningfully.

"I'm very grateful for everything you've done for the Opera," Erik said, taking his cue. "And I hope you'll continue to support us in the future."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that," said the Count. "Oh, excellent, here's the starter."

A bowl of steaming beef soup was placed on the table in front of Erik. He tasted the soup: it was delicious. Erik hadn't realised until then how hungry he was.

"Did you have time to read the score of _Il Muto_?" asked the Count. "I'm desperate to hear what you think."

Erik stared into his soup. In truth he had thought long and hard about _Il Muto_. Philippe's music was as banal as ever, but Monsieur Leferve had managed to persuade him that the operetta had the potential to be a great commercial success. They had already discussed the casting.

"I thought it was very interesting," said Erik.

The Count beamed at him. "Really? And they say you're a hard man to please."

"I am," said Erik, through gritted teeth.

The Count sighed happily. "When will you start the rehearsals?"

"Next week."

"And I suppose Sorelli will play Serafimo? I know she'll be perfect for the role."

"Of course."

They finished the soup. Erik ate in silence while Philippe talked to Hector. The young Viscount was silent too, and he didn't seem to have much of an appetite. Erik felt rather sorry for him. Perhaps he didn't feel comfortable at parties either.

The waiter cleared their bowls away. The Viscount's was still half full.

Philippe patted his lips with his napkin. "There was one other thing I wanted to ask you. It concerns a member of your company. A young lady in the chorus."

Erik groaned inwardly. He hoped this "young lady" was not the new object of Philippe's affections.

The Vicomte de Chagny, who had so far given an appearance of silent boredom, suddenly gave a nervous bark of laughter. "Please, Philippe, not now!"

"Her name is Christine Daae," said Philippe, ignoring his brother.

Erik stared at the Count, not even trying to hide his surprise. Christine's name was the last he had expected Philippe to utter. "What do you want with Christine?"

Philippe looked vaguely offended. "I want nothing _with_ her. My brother knew her when he was a child, didn't you, Raoul?"

Philippe nudged Raoul, who nodded glumly.

"Christine's father was very kind to Raoul. He gave him violin lessons…not that it made any difference to Raoul's playing, of course!" The Count laughed. "Daae really was a wonderful violinist. Therefore we would like to offer our support to his daughter, wouldn't we, Raoul?"

"Yes," said Raoul, very quietly. Philippe gave him a strange look, almost a glare.

"In what way?" asked Erik.

"Well, we would like you to give her a role in _Il Muto_," said Philippe. "I'm sure she would make a charming Countess. It's not the lead role, of course – we both know that Sorelli will be the star – but it is significant."

"I'm afraid I've already promised the role of the Countess to Carlotta."

"That's a pity," said Philippe. "Because if you cast Miss Daae, I'm prepared to cover the entire cost of the production."

Erik stared at Philippe. "The entire cost? Why?"

Philippe shrugged. "She won a prize at the Conservatoire. The lady clearly has talent. And I would like some of the credit for nurturing that talent."

Erik raised an eyebrow. In truth, he did not think Christine had distinguished herself during _Hannibal_. It was therefore quite ridiculous that the merest glance from her was enough to make him start to tremble. He had not forgotten the first time he had heard her sing.

He quickly looked over his shoulder at the table nearest the door. Although most members of the chorus were present, Christine was absent from the party. A part of him wondered why, but he also felt rather relieved. If Christine had been present, he would have spent the evening trying to avoid her, as had been his habit over the last three weeks. He could not understand why, but something about her unnerved him.

For dignity's sake, Erik decided not to say this to the Count. Instead, in the most nonchalant tone he could muster, he asked: "Do you really think she's talented?"

"Oh, yes," said Philippe. "Very much so. Don't you?"

"Her voice is good, but I don't think she's ready to sing a major role just yet," Erik replied. "She's very inexperienced."

"I'm sure she would be fine," said Philippe. "All these sopranos sound the same, don't they?"

Hector laughed, but Erik clenched his teeth. He glanced at the Viscount, and saw that the young man was staring at his brother with obvious embarrassment.

"I suppose so," said Erik. Then, unable to resist, he added: "To the untrained ear."

Philippe chuckled, but his eyes were cold.

"Tell me, Erik," he said, refilling his champagne glass. "Where did you study? Where did you develop these extraordinary musical gifts which we all envy so much? The name of the conservatoire escapes me."

Erik sat very still. They had been conversing like equals, but now the Count was making Erik's position quite clear. He was a man of lower status than the Comte de Chagny. Philippe would not stand by and allow a man like Erik to insult him. Erik realised he had been very foolish.

"Where _did_ you train, Erik?" said Hector curiously. "I don't think you've ever told me."

Erik prayed silently that the Count would not tell Hector what he knew. He was relieved when Philippe shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"Of course I will bow to your superior knowledge," said Philippe. "If you truly don't consider Daae to be ready, then you must be correct. But perhaps we could come to some other arrangement."

"What sort of arrangement?"

"Well, as you are such a knowledgeable musician, perhaps you would consider training Christine."

Erik stared at him in disbelief. "Why me?"

"Who better? You know everything about music. You say Christine's voice needs improvement. Perhaps you could coach her until she's ready to play a major role."

"Why, Erik, that's a marvellous idea!" said Hector.

"No, no," said Erik. He realised his voice was trembling. "I can't…I mean, I couldn't possibly…"

The Count raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

Erik stared down at his unfinished plate of lobster. _Why not, indeed? _he thought to himself. _Because, Erik, you're frightened of her. Admit it. Every time she looks at you, she makes you feel like the ugliest man alive, which, of course, you are. _

It was probably wise not to confess any of this to Count Philippe, so instead Erik settled upon a more logical excuse.

"Miss Daae already has a singing teacher."

Now it was Philippe's turn to stare uncomfortably at the tablecloth.

"Yes, Christine Daae does have a singing teacher of a sort, but he's not very good…"

"I'm well aware of that!" Erik exclaimed. "He hasn't even taught her how to project her voice properly."

"I have a small confession to make," said the Count. "A few months ago Miss Daae wrote to me. Well, actually she wrote to Raoul. She said she had graduated from the Conservatoire and she was having trouble securing a new singing teacher. Raoul asked me, as the musical member of our family, if I had any advice I could give her. Didn't you, Raoul?"

"Please, Philippe, there's no need to trouble Monsieur Carriere with all this," said Raoul, looking at Erik apologetically.

"Singing teachers are expensive, and Raoul assured me that his friend did not want our charity," Philippe continued, undeterred by his brother's weak protests. "Therefore the only solution was to teach her myself."

There was an awkward silence as Erik stared at Philippe incredulously.

"_You're _Miss Daae's singing teacher?" said Erik.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," said Philippe, with a guilty smile. "Don't worry, I only gave her two lessons, so the situation isn't irredeemable. Two lessons were quite enough to show me that I was completely out of my depth. I'm not a singer, Erik, so how can I possibly teach someone with her potential? You, on the other hand, are the greatest singer I have ever heard."

"Really?" said Hector, looking at Erik in surprise. "You sing?"

Erik was too busy trying to contain his anger to answer him. Really, the arrogance of this man was incredible. How could Philippe, an amateur musician, have even hoped to teach Christine Daae to sing?

Another thought occurred to Erik, and suddenly his feelings of anger and resentment became much more personal. He glared at the Count.

"You gave her my music! How dare you!"

For a moment Philippe looked puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do!" said Erik, his voice rising. A few people on the nearby tables glanced over their shoulders at him. Hector Chalumeau and the Viscount were both staring at him as though he had suddenly gone mad.

"Do calm down, old fellow," said Hector, rather unhelpfully, for all of Erik's attention was focused on Philippe.

"You gave her a copy of my song," said Erik, struggling to keep his voice low. "You told her to sing it at the audition. Why?"

Philippe shrugged. "It..."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose," hissed Erik. "Just like everything else."

"It's only a song," said Philippe. "I thought she sang it well."

"Only a song?" Erik cried.

"A fine song," said Philippe desperately. "A fine song which suited her voice. You hired her, didn't you? Please, Erik, calm down. I meant no offence."

Philippe's face wore a genuine expression of repentance, and Erik could not help but feel satisfied at seeing the Count squirm.

"All right," he sighed. "I believe you."

The humble expression vanished from the Count's face, and he smiled hopefully. "So you'll teach her?"

"I…"

"Please, Erik. You would be doing me a great favour."

Erik hesitated, thinking of Christine Daae's nervous glances whenever he passed her on the stage, the way she wrinkled her nose in slight distaste whenever he looked at her. Then, of course, there was her voice. If only someone could unlock the potential in that voice…

Perhaps he was the man to do it. But what if she rejected him?

"Do you think Miss Daae would wish to have me as her singing teacher?" Erik asked.

"I'm sure she would," said Philippe. He smiled. "But why don't you ask her yourself?"

Erik suddenly became aware of the sound of excited voices near the café's door. He turned to see Meg Giry and Cecile Jammes, who always liked to make a dramatic entrance. And behind them, dressed in a cream coloured evening gown, was a more hesitant figure who smiled shyly at the assembled diners.

Erik felt the breath catch in his throat.

Christine had come to the party.


	5. Stage Fright

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing! This chapter was quite heavily inspired by the bistro scene in the 1990 television version of the Phantom of the Opera starring Charles Dance. I hope you enjoy reading.

**Chapter Five: Stage F****right**

As soon as she entered the Café de l'Opera, Christine found herself regretting her decision to accompany Meg and Cecile to the first night party. They had arrived late, partly because Cecile had taken over an hour to get ready, and partly so they could, in Meg's words, 'avoid eating the revolting lobster.' The party had now moved beyond its formal dining stage, and the café was filled with raucous voices and laughter. Christine would have preferred to eat with her friends at a quiet table, but there was little chance of that now.

To make matters worse, Meg had just spotted the Vicomte de Chagny. She gave a little squeak of excitement and seized Christine by the arm.

"There he is!" she exclaimed. "That's him, isn't it? Raoul de Chagny. Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"

Christine wished she had never told Meg that she had known Raoul as a child. She could not even remember how the subject had arisen, only that they had been enjoying a gossip in their dressing room one evening. Christine had somehow let it slip that Philippe de Chagny was her singing teacher, although she had not had a lesson with him for a while. Meg had been impressed, and had immediately wanted to hear more. How on Earth did she know the Count? Of course, Christine had then been obliged to explain the history of her friendship with Raoul.

She could still remember the awe-struck expression on Meg's face. "You're friends with the Vicomte de Chagny?" she gasped. "He's the most eligible man in Paris!"

Christine had thought nothing of this, until she had walked into the rehearsal room a few days later only to be confronted by half a dozen members of the corps de ballet. They had immediately started bombarding her with questions.

"Is it true you know the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Is it true he's in love with you?"

"Has he really written you a love letter every week for the past four years?"

Christine had been deeply embarrassed, but had tried to answer the questions as calmly as she could: Yes, the Viscount was an old acquaintance. No, he did not love her and no, there had never been any love letters, just the occasional friendly letter while Raoul was abroad and Christine was studying at the Conservatoire.

Knowing these rumours could only have come from one source, Christine had taken Meg to one side and demanded an explanation.

Meg had looked almost tearful. "I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't know what else to do. They were laughing at you."

Christine was upset by this news, but not surprised: the Paris Opera chorus, especially the corps de ballet, had a long tradition of making fun of new members of the company.

"Laughing at me? Why?"

"They were saying that no one will want to dance with you at the first night party because you don't have any admirers. So I told them you knew the Viscount and he would dance with you." Meg looked sheepishly down at her feet. "Then it got a bit out of hand."

Christine sighed. "Oh, Meg. Why did you tell them that?"

"I didn't like to see them laughing at you." Meg brightened up a bit. "And you never know, maybe he _will _dance with you!"

Christine had laughed at that, and forgiven Meg, who had clearly meant well. It had been such a silly incident, but over the following days she had noticed a change in the attitudes of the other chorus girls towards her. They began to treat her with a new respect, slightly tinged with jealousy, which led Christine to suspect that some of Meg's tales had been taken seriously.

Meanwhile, Meg had refused to let the matter drop. She was infinitely apologetic, but she also seemed to believe her own fantasy. She never tired of telling Christine how wonderfully romantic it would be if she and the Vicomte were to fall in love at the Hannibal first night party.

And now, in the middle of the crowded café, Christine found that her worst fears were coming true: Meg was trying to play matchmaker.

"Do you want me to tell him for you?" Meg asked, glancing furtively towards the Viscount's table.

Christine stared at her friend. "Tell him what?"

"That you'd like to dance with him, of course!"

"But I don't want to dance with him. Let's just find a table, shall we?"

Meg looked disappointed, but joined Christine and Cecile at a small table near the door. They shared a bottle of wine and chatted about the evening's performance. Christine found herself throwing an occasional glance in the direction of Raoul's table. After half an hour, she began to feel rather disappointed. They were old friends. Surely he should come over and say hello? But Raoul seemed to be deep in conversation with his brother, and Christine began to suspect that she was being deliberately ignored.

Another ten minutes slipped by. Some of the chairs and tables were cleared out of the way. The violinist and accordion player began a merry tune, and several couples got up to dance. Two young men from the chorus came up to ask Meg and Cecile to dance, and Christine found herself alone, sipping her wine resignedly.

"Miss Daae?"

The voice was familiar, and for a moment Christine was convinced that it was Raoul. She turned around hopefully, only to feel her smile fade.

"Monsieur Carriere," she said, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Good evening."

Erik Carriere gave her a lop-sided smile, but there was something tense in his manner. It took Christine a moment to notice that the man was trembling. His left hand was curled around the stem of a champagne glass, and the glass was shaking, the pale liquid swaying about within. Christine wondered if he was ill.

"Are you well, Monsieur?" she enquired.

"Yes, thank you." Then he lapsed into silence, the unmasked side of his face regarding her warily, as if he was waiting for her to say something more. She hoped that he had not come to ask her to dance: the very thought was frightening. But he was the director of the opera company. Was it even possible to refuse to dance with him?

Erik raised a hand. "Miss Daae, would you like…I mean…"

"Yes," said Christine quickly. "I'll dance with you, if you wish. But I'm not very good."

She was sure his left cheek coloured slightly at her words. "No…I don't want to dance."

"Of course not," said Christine, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Erik gave a forced-sounding laugh. "No. Forgive me, Miss Daae, I didn't mean to offend you. Of course I'd be delighted to dance with you, but…" he tailed off, and for the first time Christine saw a strange expression cross the left side of his face. For a moment he looked almost vulnerable. He gave a deep sigh. "I'm so sorry. I'm not very good at this. I just noticed you were on your own, and I thought you might like a glass of champagne."

He offered her the glass, his eyes hopeful.

Something softened inside Christine. She looked at Monsieur Carriere, and felt a new understanding dawn. She had feared him and thought him arrogant. Now, in this strange environment away from the Opera House, he appeared less sure of himself, almost gauche. Christine realised that what she had mistaken for arrogance was actually shyness. Was it really possible that Erik Carriere was as shy as she was?

She took the glass of champagne from him with a smile. "That's very kind. Thank you. Won't you sit down?"

Erik hesitated for a moment, but then finally sat in the chair which Meg had so eagerly vacated. Christine watched as his trembling subsided.

"You must think me very awkward," he said. "I suppose I am, at events such as these. I feel much more at home in the Opera House."

Christine nodded. "Me too."

"How are you finding life there? Are you enjoying it?"

"Very much," she replied, realising immediately how unconvincing her words sounded.

Monsieur Carriere narrowed his eyes. "Is there something wrong?"

"Sometimes I wonder if I really have the talent to be an opera singer," she sighed. Then she cursed her stupidity. If Erik saw that even she doubted her own abilities, he could quite conceivably fire her. Christine already felt that her acceptance into the company had been the result of a fluke. No doubt Erik thought the same.

Christine tried to recover herself. "That is, I know I can sing, but it just all feels slightly overwhelming at the moment."

To her surprise, Erik nodded. "I don't think I've met a single performer who has not been plagued by doubts at some point in their career," he said.

"So it's normal for me to feel this way?"

Erik smiled. "Certainly. I would not have hired you if I didn't think you had potential. By the way, there's something I would like to ask you."

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone rapping something against a tabletop. Christine turned in the direction of the noise, and saw that Count Philippe had risen to his feet.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for coming to my little gathering. I am pleased to inform you that it's time for the event which you've all been waiting for: the proud tradition of the First Night Duet Contest."

There were excited cheers from the company. Christine glanced at Erik. "No one told me about this. What is it?"

Erik gave her a pained look. "You'll see."

With a dramatic flourish, Philippe de Chagny produced a black top hat from behind his back and held it high in the air.

"If, during the course of the evening, you have written your name on a slip of paper and dropped it inside this hat, you will now find out your singing partner for the contest. You and your partner will then have to decide upon a song. I will now draw the first two names."

Philippe reached into the hat and withdrew two folded pieces of paper. He unfolded them and smiled. "Our first duo of the evening will be Meg Giry and Anatole Garron."

There were more cheers, and Erik gave a soft groan.

"The names are drawn at random, but somehow we always end up with the worst possible combinations," he said, with a wry smile.

Meanwhile, Philippe had selected two further pieces of paper. Christine watched as his face broke into a broad smile.

"Our second duo for the evening will be Christine Daae and Erik Carriere."

Christine watched in horror as the entire company turned to stare at them.

"But I didn't enter!" she exclaimed. She looked at Erik, who had gone completely rigid in his chair.

"I think someone has entered my name without my permission, Monsieur le Comte," he said accusingly.

Philippe grinned. "I'm ever so sorry, Erik, but there's no getting out of it. The hat has spoken."

Erik covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, Miss Daae. You can sing if you like, but I'll have to withdraw."

"Oh, please sing, Monsieur Carriere!" piped up Meg. "We've never heard you sing, and you can't be any worse than me."

Erik looked at Christine, and for a moment his expression was oddly troubled, his golden-brown eyes deeply sad. But the look vanished as quickly as it had come, and Christine was left wondering if she had imagined it.

"Well, Miss Daae," he said. "Will you sing with me?"

Speechless with nerves, Christine could only nod.

"Do you know the _Think of Me_ aria from Hannibal?" he asked. "I'll sing the first verse, you sing the second."

Again, she nodded her agreement. Then Erik and Christine sat in petrified silence as the remaining duos were selected, and Meg and Anatole sang their rather discordant duet. And then, suddenly, horribly, it was their turn to stand up and take their place by the café's grand piano, where Monsieur Reyer was in charge, as ever, of the musical accompaniment.

Christine felt dozens of pairs of eyes upon her. She glanced at Erik for support, but he was silent, unsmiling, his eyes closed, his face unreadable.

She began the first verse uncertainly, her eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling, so she would not have to look at anyone while she sang. She found that she was in good voice, possibly for the first time in several weeks, and she began to feel pleased with herself.

Christine's verse came to an end. Then a glorious, lyrical tenor voice began to sing, quite softly, by her ear, the high notes pure and soft as velvet. As the voice grew in volume and power, the rich sound seemed to engulf everything around it, bouncing off the walls of the café like the tolling of a great bell. Christine turned around in surprise, half expecting Monsieur Carriere to have vanished, only to be replaced by some mystery tenor. But it was indeed Erik singing.

An unspoken agreement found them singing the final verse of the aria together. Christine's voice faltered, but determined not to be left behind, she picked up the melody again. It was as if both of them were running a race: Erik's voice was always several paces ahead in its power and musical accomplishment. With any other singing partner, Christine would have despaired at the weaknesses evident in her own voice. But Erik's rich voice seemed to call out to her, to encourage her to join him. The experience was both exhausting and exhilarating.

The aria ended with a complex cadenza. Christine made a mighty effort, but her voice gave out long before Erik's. Christine listened, hardly breathing, as Erik's voice soared above her head, his final high note lasting for longer than she had thought physically possible, before fading, almost imperceptibly, into silence.

A heartbeat of stillness, and then the whole café burst into noisy applause, a sound which offended Christine's ears after the beauty which had caused it. She turned to look at Erik in wonder. His eyes were still closed, and Christine saw a tear roll down the smooth surface of his white mask.

"Monsieur Carriere? Are you all right?"

Erik opened his eyes and looked at Christine as if he had never seen her before. Then he seemed to become aware of the crowd surrounding him, and the faraway look in his eyes turned to one of horror.

"Excuse me," he gasped. "I think I need some air."

He hurried towards the door, apparently oblivious to the compliments and words of congratulations which surrounded him.

Meg tapped Christine on the shoulder. "He sings like an angel!" she said. "Where do you suppose he learned to sing like that? You were quite good, too."

Christine ignored her. Following some impulse she could hardly understand, she dashed out of the café in pursuit of Erik.

Erik ran blindly out into the street, desperately seeking a place to hide.

There was an alleyway tucked between the café and the next block of buildings, and he dived into it, wrapping himself in the shadows. Slumping against a wall in defeat, he brought his hands up to his face and covered his eyes, trying to forget the staring faces which surrounded him, the pitying glances, the cruel, heartless words, and the laughter.

The laughter was the worst thing of all. He felt the preceding years fall away, and suddenly he was back there, an object of pity and of ridicule, bathed in the glare of the sun or the chandeliers, trying to sing to them, to make them understand, but unable to hide what he was.

He heard footsteps, and attempted to let out a low growl of warning. But the growl emerged from his throat as a pathetic whimper.

"Monsieur Carriere?"

It was _her _voice. She had followed him. Erik tried to drag his confused mind back into the present. He lowered his hands from his face and looked at Christine through tear-blurred eyes.

"What happened?" she sounded concerned, almost fearful.

Erik attempted to wave a hand dismissively, but his limbs were shaking so much that he realised the gesture was futile.

"Nothing," he whispered. "I just needed to get out of there. I should not have sung in front of them. It was very foolish of me."

"Why do you say that?" her voice was so kind that he felt the tears threaten again. "You have a beautiful voice. I've never heard anything like it."

And then he started to cry. Through the haze of humiliating tears, he felt something brush against his arm, and realised with a jolt that it was Christine's hand. She was trying to comfort him, apparently.

"Please," she said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Perhaps a stronger man would have told her to leave him alone while he pulled himself together. But Erik reflected bitterly that he must be a very weak man indeed, to hide sobbing in an alley, while a virtual stranger looked pityingly on.

"Would you stay with me for a few minutes?" he gasped.

She nodded. "Of course."

They stood together in silence for a while. Eventually Erik's tears subsided, and he regained control of his laboured breathing.

When he looked at Christine again, he was sure he must be a picture of embarrassment. Since his arrival at the Opera House, all those years ago, he had always tried to hide any sign of vulnerability from those around him. He was Erik Carriere, stoic and unreachable, arrogant and strong. Now he had allowed that particular mask to slip, and he despised himself for it. He fully expected Christine to return to the party, where she would have a good laugh with her friends about foolish Erik and his foolish tears.

But instead she stood quietly beside him, a sympathetic smile on her face.

"Are you all right now?" she asked.

He nodded. "Promise me you won't tell anyone about this. That I was crying, I mean."

"All right, I promise," she said. She paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

He tried to think of a way to explain it to her, without conjuring the memories into being once again.

"Do you ever get stage fright?" he asked.

She nodded.

"It's like stage fright, but worse, because it's with me all the time. But tonight I made it worse by singing." He lowered his gaze so as not to meet her eyes. "I have the constant feeling that people are looking at me, staring at my mask, asking themselves questions. And usually they are. You did me a great kindness, agreeing to sing with me tonight. Not everyone would."

"Why not?" She sounded shocked.

"People look at me, and they're embarrassed. They don't want to be near me, to talk to me or sing with me. Have you any idea how humiliating that is, how lonely? I've always been able to sing, but I learned long ago that I should not try, because nobody wants to listen to me. Nobody wants to hear a gargoyle sing," he paused, feeling a wave of misery pass through him. "And if they do, if they stay and listen, it's only out of curiosity. They only wish to see the gargoyle's ugly face, and think to themselves how strange it is, that such an ugly creature can sing so well." He shook his head sadly. "Tonight, because of my own vanity, my inability to resist the opportunity to sing, I embarrassed you as well as myself. Forgive me, Miss Daae."

For a moment Christine said nothing. When he finally found the courage to look at her, he was astonished to see the tears in her eyes.

"You're not a gargoyle, Erik," she whispered, and it felt strange, hearing her speak his first name. "And you could never, ever embarrass me. I found it a great honour, to sing alongside someone with your talent."

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, Miss Daae. But you _should_ be embarrassed. The others…"

"They think your voice is beautiful," said Christine, cutting him off. "I heard Meg say that you sing like an angel."

He gave a snort of laughter. "An angel? Impossible."

"You do," she said, smiling at him. She gestured towards the café. "Come back inside with me, and I'll prove that nobody thinks you're a gargoyle."

He shook his head. Her words had comforted him, had soothed his fears. He even felt the first stirrings of something in his heart, a vague feeling of warmth and joy. Of course she could not possibly know how ugly he truly was, not with the mask in place. Her comforting words were spoken out of ignorance. They meant nothing; and yet it was kind of her to say them. And she thought his voice was beautiful. The evening was suddenly not quite as disastrous as it had first seemed.

But he still could not bear the thought of entering that café again, the thought of all those people turning to look at him curiously.

"No," he said, trying to smile at Christine. "I think, under the circumstances, I should go home and rest. You go on. Enjoy the rest of the party."

Christine seemed to hesitate for a moment. "But you're all right now?"

"I feel much better, thank you," he said. "I'm sorry about making such a spectacle of myself."

"It doesn't matter," she smiled at him again, and turned to leave.

It was then that Erik remembered what he had intended to ask her earlier in the evening. At the very least, he was now almost certain that she would not refuse him because of his appearance.

"Christine?"

She paused and turned to look at him again. "Yes?"

"I was wondering…you have a wonderful voice, but…and I hope you'll forgive me for saying this…it has not been properly trained. You have fallen into some bad habits, and I think I can help you." He looked down at the ground again. "Would you allow me to give you singing lessons?"

For a moment she did not say anything. She simply stared at him in apparent confusion. "But I thought you didn't like my voice."

He laughed at that; he couldn't help it. Singing with Christine had given him all the reassurance he needed: her voice was beautiful, he had been right all along, and he would do whatever he had to in order to make this lovely, kind, compassionate woman a star.

He could not say any of this to Christine, of course.

"On the contrary, Miss Daae. Your voice is very good. Please will you let me teach you?"

He watched in delight as Christine's face was lit up by a broad, happy smile.

"I would be honoured, Monsieur Carriere."


	6. We Shall Astonish Paris

**Author's Note: **Thank you for your reviews and continued support of this story. I'm sorry for the long delay in posting this new chapter. I hope you're all still enjoying the story, and thank you very much for reading.

The title of the new chapter is a direct quote from Leroux's novel. (It appears in the Apollo's Lyre chapter). You'll also notice numbers between the different sections of the chapter. This is my attempt to make it clearer where one scene ends, and the next begins.

Thanks again for reading.

**Chapter 6: "We shall astonish Paris"**

1.

Every day, before rehearsals began, Erik took breakfast in his office at the Opera House. This had been his habit ever since he had taken the post of director. At first this had been due to his eagerness to be back inside his beloved Opera House. Now it was largely due to necessity; people expected him to be in his office, so he was.

Breakfast usually consisted of a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant, which Erik consumed while he read the morning papers. Normally this was a ritual which he enjoyed very much. But today was different. It was Monday morning, two days after the premiere performance of _Hannibal_.

Madame Giry knew better than anyone what this meant. She hovered nervously by the desk, watching as Erik examined a newspaper with an intensity that was almost frightening. The chocolate croissant, meanwhile, lay untouched and forlorn upon its plate. Madame Giry rather disapproved of Erik's fondness for chocolate croissants, but this morning she found herself wishing that he would forget the newspapers and enjoy his rather unhealthy breakfast.

"Is there something the matter?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, the left side of his face wearing an expression of utter dismay. He thrust the newspaper towards her, his hands shaking all the while.

"Read this," he said, indicating a short paragraph. "It's by _him_."

Madame Giry began to read.

_On Saturday I had the misfortune to be in attendance at the opening night of Chalumeau's _Hannibal _at the Paris Opera House. I am sorry to report that it was everything I feared: an unimaginative spectacle which did nothing to serve Chalumeau's great music. _

_The once celebrated talents of Carlotta Giudicelli and Ubaldo Piangi seem out of place here, as if they are performing in their own private world far removed from the Alps. I am sad to say that the mechanical elephant displays more acting ability than these two tired leads put together, and its entrance is very much the high point of the evening. _

_This sorry production is a testament to how far this once great institution has fallen since the arrival of Erik Carriere, an uneducated eccentric who is badly in need of a stint at the Paris Conservatoire to complete his musical training. Are our great composers forever to be placed at the mercy of a man who knows nothing about music? _

_O. G. _

Madame Giry folded the newspaper and placed it calmly upon the desk. She looked at Erik, who was staring out of the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"How dare he?" he snarled. "An uneducated eccentric, indeed! How dare he!"

Madame Giry stepped towards him. "Erik, you mustn't take this to heart. Please, don't let it upset you."

Erik turned to look at her. When he next spoke, it was in a calm voice which belied the tears in his eyes.

"Antoinette, please gather the whole company together. Tell them to be ready onstage in fifteen minutes. I would like to rehearse _Hannibal._"

2.

Christine arrived at the Opera House in a state of nervous excitement. It was two days since the premiere of Hannibal, and that afternoon she would be having her first singing lesson with Monsieur Carriere.

She could still hardly believe that he had offered to teach her. She did not understand why he had chosen to train her, of all people, but at the same time it did not seem to matter. It was strange; in a way she was not quite convinced that he would be up to the task of teaching her. Two disastrous lessons with Count Philippe had shown her that not everyone was capable of being a teacher, regardless of their skill as a musician. And she did not even know whether Erik had any formal musical training.

The truth was that Christine cared less about anything Erik might be able to teach her and more about the chance the lessons would give her to hear that beautiful voice again. Surely he would have to sing to her occasionally, if only to demonstrate how the voice should be used.

For two days, Erik's song had echoed through her mind as she tried to use her imagination to recapture its beauty. It was no good; his voice, like most music, had faded too quickly from her memory. Two days was far too long. But that afternoon she would finally hear him sing again.

But first, there was the morning's chorus practice to attend.

Christine was in high-spirits when she arrived at the rehearsal room. She saw Meg, gave her a cheery smile and a wave, and almost danced across the polished wooden floor until she stood beside her.

Only then did Christine notice Meg's downcast expression. Glancing around the room, she saw that the other members of the company were wearing similar expressions of woe and fatigue. Monsieur Reyer paced restlessly beside the piano, staring at the floor, his face creased into worried lines.

Christine looked at Meg. "What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" asked Meg sadly.

"No," said Christine. The look on Meg's face was starting to frighten her. Her mind began to conjure up a series of dreadful possibilities, as it usually did when she felt anxious. Her first thought was of Erik Carriere. Perhaps he had been taken ill. He had been so upset the other night. What if he had resigned from the Opera? She would never see or hear him again.

"Meg, What is it? What's happened?" Her voice shook with fear.

"The reviews are in."

For a moment, Christine could only stare at her friend. Then she began to laugh with relief.

"Meg! You had me worried for a minute. Is that all?"

Meg shook her head. "You haven't seen the newspapers, Christine. The reviews are terrible, the worst we've ever had. O.G. has given us bad reviews before, but this time he's gone too far."

"Who's O.G.?" said Christine, puzzled. "I've never heard of him."

There were nervous murmurs of conversation among the chorus members.

"He's the most powerful critic in Paris," said Meg darkly. "No one knows who he is, but the patrons always seem to listen to him." Meg's eyes began to brim with tears. "Christine, a review this bad from O.G. could be enough to close Hannibal."

Christine stared at Meg, aghast. "But surely one bad review wouldn't be enough to do that?"

"This one could. It says Hannibal is a measure of how far the Paris Opera House has fallen in O.G.'s estimations since it was taken over by _a man who knows nothing about music_."

Christine gasped. "You mean he actually wrote that about Monsieur Carriere?"

Meg nodded. "And worse besides. He calls Monsieur Carriere 'An uneducated eccentric.' Monsieur Carriere has locked himself in his office. This morning his secretary knocked on the door and Monsieur Carriere snarled at him to go away. Mother's gone to speak with him."

Christine felt like crying, and for wholly selfish reasons; her singing lesson with Erik now seemed like a very distant prospect.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of Madame Giry's cane striking the door.

Reyer looked up in irritation, finally distracted from his fevered pacing. "Come in."

The ballet mistress entered the room and looked gravely around at the assembled chorus.

"I'm very sorry to interrupt your practice, ladies and gentlemen. But your presence is needed in the auditorium. We're going to rehearse _Hannibal_."

Reyer gave an exasperated sigh. "Is the man never satisfied? What else can we possible do to _Hannibal_? Hire a real elephant, which will squirt water at the audience? Or make the Roman soldiers sing in Latin, perhaps, to give it a more authentic feel? Or perhaps Erik and his wretched O.G. would prefer us to leave Paris and perform the entire opera in the Alps?"

A short silence followed Reyer's outburst, broken only by a single nervous laugh from one of the younger chorus members.

"I really don't know," said Madame Giry.

"And what about my rehearsals?" said Reyer. "Are they so unimportant?"

"I'm very sorry," said Madame Giry. "There's nothing I can do. He won't listen to reason."

The chorus filed out of the rehearsal room, muttering to each other in displeasure.

In the auditorium, Christine immediately caught sight of Erik. He marched purposefully onto the stage like a soldier readying himself for battle. He stood at the front of the stage, eyes gleaming with anger. The people standing nearest him took an instinctive step backwards.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," Erik began, his beautiful voice twisted with sarcasm. "I'm very sorry to summon you from your most important tasks, whatever those are. Some people may have led you to believe that the performance the other night was a triumph, and those people may well be right. However, it was very far from perfect…"

"Here we go," Meg whispered.

"Silence!" Erik said, glaring at her. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, I have brought you here today because this company has become complacent. Complacent and lazy. First, the orchestra. I could have sworn the other night that the third trombone had suffered an attack of deafness, even though I know the excellent gentleman in question is blessed with perfect hearing. And the dancing, I am sorry to say, was a lamentable mess. I'm sure Madame Giry will agree with me."

He glanced at the ballet mistress, who remained stubbornly silent.

"And as for our two leads, who I notice are fashionably late, as usual…well, it is perhaps best that I don't go into that. Suffice to say that there are times when we should keep our emotions to ourselves on stage, and concentrate on portraying the character. And that goes for all of you. And now we rehearse from the very beginning."

Erik retreated to Box Five, and the company assembled in the wings. Carlotta and Piangi arrived during the overture. Erik did not speak to them. He did not need to: his glare was chilling enough.

The rehearsal was hard work, and the company was ordered to stop many times so Erik could correct small details. Carlotta and Piangi were forced to stop the most, usually because Erik considered Carlotta's acting to be too weak, or else exaggerated. At one point, he accused her of "strutting around the stage like a demented peacock." Christine felt rather sorry for the prima donna, who seemed near to tears a number of times during the morning. However, by early afternoon, Carlotta's tears had dried and she lost her temper.

Christine was waiting in the wings with her fellow chorus members. She watched Carlotta hold up one of the opera's more gruesome properties: a severed head.

"These trophies from our saviours from the enslaving force of Rome!" sang Carlotta.

This was the cue for the dancers to enter. But before Meg could lead her row onto the stage, Erik's voice rang out.

"Stop there, please."

The orchestra stopped playing. Christine peered around a flat to see what was happening.

"You're not holding that last note for long enough, Signora," said Erik. "You need to hold it for four beats."

"You're wrong," said Carlotta. "It's two beats."

"It's four."

"Then they must be playing it wrong," said Carlotta, thrusting an accusing finger towards the orchestra pit.

"No, Signora, you're singing it wrong," said Erik.

"Well, then, come up here and sing it yourself," said Carlotta. "Show me the right way to sing it."

There was a moment of silence. The atmosphere in the theatre suddenly became very tense.

"You know I can't do that," Erik said quietly.

"That's because you're not a singer," said Carlotta. "I am a singer, so don't tell me what is right and what is wrong!"

Christine listened to the diva in mounting anger. How could she possibly say that Erik was not a singer? But then she remembered that Carlotta had not been at the bistro, which meant that she had not heard Erik sing. Her anger was replaced by a strange, irrational pity. The diva had missed out on something special, something which, as a great performer herself, she doubtless would have appreciated.

Before Christine even realised what she was doing, she found herself taking tentative steps towards Carlotta.

"Excuse me, Signora Giudicelli?"

Surprised, Carlotta turned to look at Christine. "Yes, my dear? What is it?"

"I just wanted to say that Monsieur Carriere _is_ a singer. He sings beautifully."

Carlotta gave a thin and not entirely pleasant smile. "What are you talking about, dear?"

"He sang at the bistro the other evening," said Christine. "We all heard him." She looked to her friends for support, but her fellow performers merely stared at her with a sort of grim fascination. Christine began to wish she had not said anything. She cast a nervous glance up at Box Five, and saw that Erik's face was rigid with disapproval.

"Thank you, Miss Daae, for that illuminating interruption," said Erik, his voice sharp and cold. "And now I think we should resume our rehearsal."

But Carlotta was not satisfied. "Perhaps the girl is right," she said. "Perhaps you are, in fact, the best singer amongst us. Perhaps you should simply take all of the parts for yourself, and then everyone else can go home and rest."

"Signora," said Erik. "Please calm yourself."

"No!" snapped Carlotta, striding towards Erik's box. "I will not be calm! You work everyone too hard and you listen too much to the critics. What does this O.G. know, may I ask? A man such as yourself, to be scared of a critic! It's pathetic, I tell you, pathetic!"

"_Signora!" _Erik's cry rang out around the auditorium.

"Why are you here, anyway?" asked Carlotta. Her words were angry, but her voice was choked with frustrated tears. "We don't need you. You should be in your office, where managers belong!"

Again there was silence. Then Erik stood up. "Forgive me, Signora," he said. "You're right, as usual. I'll go to my office now, because I have better things to do than massage the egos of temperamental opera divas."

Erik's voice was like ice. Carlotta let out a loud noise, something between a snort of contempt and a groan of despair. But she seemed chastened.

"Take it from the chorus's entrance, please, Reyer," said Erik.

The rehearsal continued. At one point, Christine glanced up at Box Five and saw that Erik had gone.

When the rehearsal was finally at an end, Christine returned to the chorus' dressing room, where Meg and Cecile were already deep in an animated discussion about Erik and his leading lady. They both stopped talking when they saw Christine.

"What on Earth were you thinking?" said Cecile, looking at her in disbelief.

"What do you mean?"

"The way you spoke to Carlotta. I don't know how you had the gall. You do realise that she could have crushed you on the spot?"

"Crushed me?"

"She could have demanded your dismissal, just like that, and Erik would have listened to her, too."

Christine looked down at her feet. "I don't know why I said it. I wish I hadn't. I'm sorry."

"Did you see Carlotta's face?" said Cecile, who was now struggling to contain her laughter. "She looked as though she wanted to strangle him."

"I actually felt rather sorry for her today," said Meg. "I thought she looked tired."

"She's not at her best at the moment," agreed Cecile. "I doubt she'll last another season."

"Don't be so cruel," said Meg.

"She's been the principal for five seasons. It's about time somebody else had a go."

"Carlotta's the greatest soprano we've ever had," said Meg. "Erik would never fire her. He wouldn't dare."

"Why not?" asked Christine. Despite herself, she was becoming interested in Opera House gossip. The relationship between Carlotta and Erik was particularly interesting, characterised by a peculiar mixture of admiration, affection, and a kind of professional rivalry.

"Oh, Christine, surely you must have heard?" said Meg "Carlotta and Piangi are in love. Erik knows that if he fired Carlotta, Piangi would leave too, and he can't risk losing them both."

"Carlotta and Piangi?" gasped Christine. "I had no idea."

Cecile laughed. "Oh, Christine, you're so naïve. They've been in love for years. Everyone knows that."

"Well, I didn't know," said Christine.

"I suppose you haven't been here very long," said Cecile dismissively. "But if you watch them onstage, it's blatantly obvious that they're mad about each other. They were particularly bad in Hannibal the other night."

Christine sighed.

"What's the matter?" asked Meg.

"Nothing," said Christine. "It's just…this place. I'm not sure that I'll ever completely understand it."

Cecile grinned. "You'll get used to it eventually. And don't worry about Carlotta. By tomorrow she'll have found something else to get worked up about. Let's go to the bistro, shall we? And forget all about it?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. She knew that Erik would in all likelihood be in no mood to give her a singing lesson, but she could not risk breaking their appointment. She glanced at the clock on the dressing room wall: it was nearly 3pm.

"Sorry, I can't today," she said.

Cecile headed towards the door. "Please yourself. Are you coming, Meg?"

"In a minute," said Meg.

Cecile shrugged and left the dressing room, closing the door behind her.

Meg immediately turned to Christine, her eyes shining eagerly. "Well? Who is it?"

"What do you mean?"

Meg smiled playfully. "You're going to meet someone, aren't you? Oh, Christine, it's Raoul, isn't it? You're meeting Raoul! I knew it!"

Christine sighed. Her friend was suddenly so excited that she was sorry to disappoint her.

"No, it's not Raoul."

"Really?" The smile was replaced by a look of intense curiosity. "Who, then?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. "I…have a new singing teacher."

"Who?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. I promised not to tell."

Meg pouted. "But I'm your best friend."

Christine sighed. She had been bursting to tell someone, and Meg was the person at the Opera House whom she trusted the most. What harm could it do? And it wasn't as though Erik had sworn her to secrecy. He had merely asked her to be discreet about it.

"All right. But you must promise not to tell anyone else."

Meg nodded solemnly. "I promise."

"It's Erik Carriere."

Meg stared at her in disbelief. "But Erik isn't a singing teacher."

"Well, the other night, at the bistro, he asked if he could teach me," said Christine. "I don't quite believe it, either. But it's true."

"But up until the other night, I didn't even know he could sing," said Meg. "Why did he suddenly decide to sing with you? It seems very strange, doesn't it, given that we've never heard him sing before? And now he's teaching you. It just doesn't seem like him. He's such a private person, Christine."

"I really don't know," said Christine. She retrieved a pile of musical scores from her dressing table. "I'm sorry, Meg, but I really must be going. I'll be late."

She turned towards the door, but before she could leave she felt Meg grasp her arm.

"Christine, be careful, won't you?"

"Why would I need to be careful?"

"He's in a bad temper today. Don't ask him any personal questions, will you? And whatever you do, don't mention his mask."

3.

Christine stared at Erik's door. It was a very ordinary door, apart from the small gold plaque which had _M. Erik Carriere, Director_ carved into it in cursive script. This small detail made the ordinary door seem very official, almost forbidding.

Erik's office was located at the end of a corridor in a part of the Opera House which Christine had never seen before. It was a strange area, halfway between the dingy corridors of the backstage dressing rooms and the grandeur of the public foyers. This was the part of the building where you could see the transition between the front of house and backstage worlds; the point where, during the Opera House's construction, the money and consequently the grand architecture had visibly started to run out.

The journey to Erik's office had been surprisingly long, and several times on the way Christine had been plagued by a strange feeling that she was going round in circles. When she had finally arrived at Erik's door she was startled; she had started to wonder whether his office really existed.

There was no use in lingering here in silence, so Christine raised her hand to the door and knocked.

"Go away!" The voice from inside was obviously Erik's, and he was obviously still angry. She almost turned and left, before realising that in all likelihood Erik did not know who she was.

She placed her mouth close to the keyhole and called to him.

"Monsieur Carriere? It's Miss Daae."

There was the sound of footsteps from within, and then the door clicked open.

Christine almost gasped. Although it was only a matter of a couple of hours since she had last seen him, Erik looked dreadful. The left side of his face was pale and his eyes were red-rimmed, the golden-brown irises unusually dull. He had evidently been weeping for some time.

"Miss Daae!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I confess I lost track of the time. Please, won't you come in?"

He opened the door wider and gestured for her to follow him inside.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Erik turned away from her, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "I'm fine, thank you," he said gruffly, pointing to a nearby armchair. 'Won't you sit down?"

Christine sat and waited in silence as Erik tidied the papers on his desk. She looked around the office. It was a large room with a high ceiling and a single window. Despite the fact that it was still daylight outside, Erik had already drawn the heavy velvet curtains. The room was comfortable, with a thick Persian carpet upon the floor and a fire burning in a small grate. It did not look like an office; rather, it seemed like a room in someone's house. There were posters from various operas hung on the walls, and a tray of tea things upon a sideboard. An upright piano, also covered with papers, stood against one wall. Unlike almost every other room in the Opera House, there was no mirror of any kind.

Turning her attention back to Erik, she saw that he was still tidying the desk, apparently making sure each pile of papers was neatly stacked, and placed at perfectly equal intervals upon the oak surface. Christine began to suspect that Erik was doing this to delay speaking to her.

She coughed politely. "Monsieur Carriere?"

He straightened another pile of papers. "Yes?"

"Would you like to begin? I've brought my sheet music with me. What would you like me to sing?"

He gave a heavy sigh. "I'm so sorry, Miss Daae, but I don't think I can possibly teach you to sing."

She stared at him in confusion. "Why not?"

His back was to her, but she saw him raise a shaking hand to his forehead. When he next spoke, his voice trembled. "That wretched newspaper…"

"I know," said Christine. "Meg told me all about the review. You shouldn't listen to this O.G. person, you know."

"I know, but…" He turned to face her, and his eyes were so sad that Christine's breath caught in her throat. "He said I know nothing of music, that I'm uneducated. And he's right. I've never had any formal musical training, Miss Daae."

"I find that rather hard to believe," she said gently.

He hung his head, unable to look at her. "I'll find you a good singing teacher. Someone with the correct training. I'm sure Hector Chalumeau would make an excellent teacher. I'll have a word with him."

Christine rose from her chair and walked towards him. She could not let this happen. He had promised to teach her and now he was going to go back on that promise, as if it had meant nothing. As if their duet at the bistro had meant nothing.

"But I want you to teach me," she said, and she could hear the tears in her own voice. "You promised."

"Why? Why do you want me?" The question was genuine, without anger. "Don't you see? I can't! I'm not trained. I don't have the knowledge and…" He gestured helplessly towards his face, as if his mask had anything to do with the matter.

"You have your voice," she said gently.

He looked up at her. "My voice isn't strong enough," he whispered. "It's never been strong enough to make people see past…_this_."

At the conservatoire, Christine had occasionally been praised for her acting talent. Perhaps this was the perfect time to put it to the test. She narrowed her eyes. "You know what I think? I think you really don't want to teach me at all."

"But I do!" he said, outraged. "Of course I do. It's just that…"

"Perhaps you think my voice is unworthy of your attention."

"Miss Daae, this has nothing to do with your voice."

Christine sighed and shook her head, trying to suppress a smile. "I knew it. I knew you were just being kind to me when you said I could sing. Do you know, I've always rather liked the idea of becoming a costumier. Would there be a place for me in the costume department, Monsieur Carriere?"

He stared at her in horror. "Christine, I will not allow you to work in the costume department."

She shrugged. "Well, if no one will teach me how to sing, then what choice do I have? If my voice isn't good enough, perhaps I can make myself useful by mending some torn costumes."

Erik drew himself up to his full height. "No, Christine, don't talk like that. You have an extraordinary voice, and I'll prove it to you. Here, your music. Give me your music…"

Christine surrendered her sheet music to Erik's eager hands and watched, smiling, as he dashed across the room towards the piano. He flung himself down upon the padded bench, raised his hands, and began to play.

"This music is dreadful," he said, after a moment. "What is it?"

Christine was obliged to hide another smile. "It's the Poor Fool aria from Count Philippe's Il Muto."

"Good God," said Erik. "Let's teach you something else, something worthy of your voice."

Christine watched as Erik flicked through the pages of sheet music. He rejected most of the music with a snort of contempt, throwing it upon the floor without apparently caring that the scores did not belong to him. Christine listened to his grumbling in amused silence until he finally found something which he approved of, at which he gave a soft, contented sigh.

"Ah, this will be perfect. Now, listen carefully. This is the Jewel Song from Gounod's Faust. I would like you to start by singing this."

So they began. Progress was slow at first; Erik was clearly a perfectionist, and he stopped Christine many times to correct her mistakes. He was a firm teacher, but fair and patient, and she soon found that she was learning more from him than she had ever expected. Best of all, he would occasionally sing, demonstrating faults in her phrasing, and sometimes joining in with her, guiding her voice to where it ought to go.

She watched him as he played and sang, marvelling at the change which came over him when he was absorbed in music. He seemed taller, somehow, and stronger. His beautiful hands danced upon the keys of the piano, and the left side of his face was almost handsome, his expression either one of serene contentment or passion, depending on the mood of the music.

When they were finished and he turned upon the piano stool to look at her, his golden-brown eyes were sparkling and his face was flushed.

"You were very good, Miss Daae," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

"Thank you," she said. "You're an excellent teacher."

Erik just shrugged in reply.

Christine hesitated for a moment. Perhaps one lesson was enough to ask of him, but if she did not ask for another, she would never know if he was willing to give her more.

"Would it be all right if I came to you again for a singing lesson?" she said. "Perhaps next week?"

Erik stared at the piano keys for a silent moment. When he finally looked up at her, there was a strange intense expression in his eyes.

"Next week?" he said. "Certainly not."

The disappointment was acute, a heavy ache inside Christine's chest. "No. I'm sorry. I'm sure you're very busy."

Erik rose hastily to his feet. "Miss Daae, you've misunderstood my meaning. Once a week will not be adequate. You must practice every day. Every day, after rehearsal. I will teach you. And just you wait…one day we shall astonish Paris."

Christine was so stunned that, for a moment, she could only stare at him in awe-struck silence.

"Thank you," she said, once she had found her voice. "Thank you, Monsieur Carriere."

"My name is Erik," he said simply. "And now you really must be going. I've kept you long enough."

"Goodnight, Erik." Christine headed for the door, but then paused, turning to look at him with a playful smile. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't mean it when I said I wanted to work in the costume department, you know."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he began to laugh. The sound was utterly unexpected, a deep rumble which caused his whole body to shake.

"You tricked me!" he chuckled. "I'm so glad you did."

Christine laughed too. Then her attitude became quite serious. "You'll be here? Tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Yes, Christine. I'll be here."


	7. A New Elissa

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. Once again, I'm very sorry for the long delay. This chapter took longer to write than I had anticipated, so I hope it's worth the wait. The next chapter is nearly finished and should hopefully be posted within the next couple of weeks.

Thanks again for your wonderful support, and I hope you're still enjoying the story.

**Chapter Seven: A New Elissa**

Erik awoke with the last chords of a gentle waltz echoing through his mind. Smiling drowsily, he wondered how many musicians had the ability to compose music while in a state of sleep.

The results varied: sometimes he would merely dream a few chords repeated in sequence, and at other times he would awake and find an entire song already formed in his mind. This morning was one of those delightful occasions, when the music was there and all he had to do was transcribe it so others could hear.

Donning a black velvet dressing gown, Erik hurried into his living room, pausing to throw open the thick red drapes which hid the outside world from view. Not so long ago, Erik had been in the habit of keeping the drapes closed during the day, thus concealing himself from the curious eyes of any Parisians who had heard rumours that the first floor apartment was the home of the famous Erik Carriere.

These past few mornings, however, he had awoken with a desire to see the sun, a need as natural as it was inexplicable.

He lingered for a moment by the window, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight as it played upon his one unmasked cheek. It was a beautiful morning; it had rained during the night but now the sky was a clear, vibrant blue, reflected in the puddles which had pooled among the uneven cobblestones, so it looked as if the ground was scattered with patches of sky torn from a painted stage set. And there was music everywhere; Erik could hear the melody of birdsong, the percussion of feet upon cobbles, the woodwind of a gentle breeze, the dissonance of voices.

It was extraordinary, to find his music again. It filled his heart, his mind and his soul. And Erik knew that Christine was the cause. Ever since his first lesson with her, the whole world was an Opera House, and he was an enraptured listener.

Two months. Was it even possible for two months to transform a life? It had been so many years since he had longed for the sunlight, and so long since he had heard music in his sleep, or sat down at a piano to compose. He had not even made a conscious decision to start composing again; arriving home one evening after giving Christine her daily lesson, he had simply sat down at the piano, wiped the dust from the keys, and begun to play. And that night, the music in his dreams was louder than ever.

Turning away from the window, Erik took his place at the piano. He scribbled the music down with a swift, inelegant hand. Only when he emerged from the half-trance of creativity and played the music on the piano, listening to it with a critical ear, did he begin to have doubts about its quality. It was sentimental music, romantic music, the sort he had written as a young man. Embarrassed, he tucked it inside a portfolio and placed it in a drawer. As he dressed himself for the day ahead, he wondered why he was suddenly writing such music, and what would become of it. Shrugging and smiling, he left the apartment and set off through the streets of Paris.

Erik was halfway to the Opera House when he realised that he had forgotten something vitally important, and he immediately cursed himself for his absent-mindedness. He had been so preoccupied with thoughts of music and of Christine that the evening's gala performance had completely slipped his mind.

Erik paused in the middle of the crowded street and uttered an audible groan. Ah, yes. The gala night. Today was a day like no other. At the stroke of midnight, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny would officially turn twenty-one years of age. And to celebrate, Count Philippe had organised a charity gala performance of _Hannibal _at the theatre, followed by a grand party in the public foyers.

Like all birthdays, Erik considered the Viscount's to be a rather trivial event, unworthy of such an elaborate fanfare. In truth, he had barely given the grand occasion any thought, beyond calling into a gentlemen's clothing emporium one evening to order the young man a tediously tasteful present: a white silk monogrammed evening scarf and a matching set of white silk monogrammed handkerchiefs. Not quite a gift fit for a Viscount, perhaps, but it would have to do.

No, the Viscount's birthday present was all prepared and ready to be united with its new and indifferent owner. It was the gala performance itself which caused Erik to break into a run.

Although the company had been performing _Hannibal _for eight weeks and could feasibly sing the opera backwards if called upon to do so, the perfectionist in Erik had been rather daunted by the thought of a gala performance. Consequently, he had decided it would be wise to call the entire company in for an early morning rehearsal. He had spent several moments lecturing his performers about the urgent need to be punctual. And now, because of his confounded composing and daydreaming, Erik himself was late.

Reaching the Opera House at long last, Erik dashed up the Grand Staircase with a speed which surprised him. The staircase was already bedecked with swathes of gold silk and garlands of flowers in celebration of the Viscount's birthday. The garlands wormed their way up the marble banisters like thorns growing up the walls of an enchanted castle, and Erik had the unsettling feeling that these prolific decorations would eventually engulf the entire building.

Reaching the top of the staircase, he rounded a sharp corner and collided with Madame Giry. The ballet mistress uttered a startled cry and almost dropped her rehearsal cane.

"Antoinette, forgive me. I didn't see you," Erik spluttered in embarrassment. But the look on Madame Giry's face was not one of anger, but of profound relief.

"Erik, thank goodness you're here!" Seizing him roughly by the arm, Madame Giry proceeded to drag him towards the main door which led to the theatre stalls.

"What's wrong?" Erik gasped, hurrying to keep up with her urgent steps. Panting, he jerked her arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "Please stop! What is it?"

Antoinette whirled about to face him.

"It's Carlotta. She's threatening to walk out of the gala tonight. She says she won't sing a note unless you apologise to her at once."

Erik stared at her in bewilderment. "Why? What have I done?"

The ballet mistress gave him a long, searching stare. "So you didn't see the newspaper this morning," she sighed. "Really, Erik. What sort of daydream are you living in at the moment? Here," Antoinette took a newspaper clipping from a pocket in her skirt and held it out to him. "Since it seems you can no longer be relied upon to read the newspapers yourself, I thought I should come prepared."

"Thank you," said Erik, irritably snatching the paper from her hand. He found himself looking at a gossip column penned by none other than the hated critic O.G.

_It is now two months since Erik Carriere premiered his mediocre _Hannibal _at the Paris Opera House, and the city is rife with speculation about the next opera of the season. I can exclusively reveal that the next production will be a comic opera penned by none other than Philippe, Comte de Chagny. Entitled _Il Muto_, the opera will feature La Sorelli, the Opera's most skilled dancer, in the silent role of the mute, which she will perform entirely through mime. Even more intriguingly, it is rumoured that the principal soprano role of the Countess will be performed by Christine Daae, a newcomer to the Opera who has to date only performed in the chorus of _Hannibal_. _

_After five seasons of increasingly stale performances by Carlotta Giudicelli, one can only hope that the casting of Miss Daae is a sign of refreshing changes to come. _

_O.G. _

Erik looked up from the paper in astonishment. The pleasant daydreams and the cosy sense of well-being he had enjoyed over the last few weeks vanished instantly, to be replaced by concern and anger.

"I can't believe this," he said.

"Carlotta isn't happy, and frankly I don't blame her," said Madame Giry with a frown. "Oh, Erik. What on earth were you thinking? To replace Carlotta with Christine Daae, of all people! She has only been with us for a few months."

"But I haven't done anything of the kind!" said Erik. "I promised the role to Carlotta and she should know that I would never break my promise." His eyes went wide with a new and unpleasant realisation. "The Comte de Chagny wanted me to cast Christine. He must have been talking to the papers. I'll kill the damn fool…"

Storming past the ballet mistress, Erik flung open the auditorium door with such force that it hit the wall. The noise rang out like a thunderclap in the silence which filled the vast, windowless room.

He was met by a frozen tableau resembling a scene from some bizarre and silent opera. Indeed, the scene was so exquisitely choreographed that for a moment Erik wondered if he had simply interrupted the rehearsal. A group of ballet girls and chorus singers cowered at stage left. Reyer stood stage right, his arms raised in a pleading gesture towards Carlotta, who stood in her usual position downstage centre, fiercely brandishing something which looked very like a newspaper. Ubaldo Piangi hovered nervously beside her. Behind them stood the Hannibal elephant, regarding the proceedings with something very close to contempt.

Erik took a step down the aisle, and the tableau instantly sprang to life. Carlotta thrust an accusing finger towards him.

"There he is!" she shrieked. "You ugly, ungrateful wretch! After all I've done for you!"

Erik froze halfway down the aisle, stunned by her words. In all the years they had known each other, Carlotta had never passed comment upon his appearance. In his early days at the Opera, when other members of the company had openly mocked him, she had always been kind. She had certainly never called him ugly, and to hear the word from her lips felt like the cruellest insult.

"Cara!" gasped Piangi. "Such strong words!"

Ignoring the well-meaning tenor, Carlotta folded her arms and fixed her furious glare upon Erik. "Well?" she said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Forgive me, Signora," said Erik, the pain of her words a dull ache in his chest. "But I have no idea what you're talking about. You seem to think I've insulted you…"

"You_ have_ insulted me!" Carlotta cried, the ostrich feathers quivering upon her hat. "You've grossly insulted me! You promised me the part of the Countess in _Il Muto_. You promised! And then this morning, when I'm eating my breakfast and thinking how lovely it will be to work with you on a new opera once again, I open the newspaper and find that you've offered the part to that little baggage instead!"

This time she pointed a finger at the _corps de ballet_, and Erik saw Christine cowering beside Meg, her lovely face wet with tears.

Erik had been ready to apologise to Carlotta, to say that it had all been a dreadful misunderstanding, that the part had always been hers and always would be. But at the sight of Christine's tears, every word of apology died upon his lips. He looked at Carlotta and felt only anger.

"I take it you're referring to Miss Daae," he said, in a voice that sounded deceptively calm, even to his own ears.

"Yes," said Carlotta. "I am."

Erik took a step towards the diva. "Apologise to her."

Carlotta put her hands on her hips. "I will do no such thing!"

"Apologise to Miss Daae at once."

"I refuse to apologise when I've done nothing wrong," said Carlotta, her hands resting defiantly upon her hips, her face a picture of condescension. "This is _your_ doing. You insult me and scoff at my talent. Do you honestly think Christine Daae has the voice to sing such a challenging role as the Countess? It's beyond her limited capabilities. It is _you _who should be apologising to _me_, and if you don't say sorry to me at once then I will not sing a note for you tonight."

Erik looked around at the bemused faces of the company and focused on Christine, who met his gaze with tear-filled eyes. And suddenly it struck him that this was no crisis. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. This was the day that Christine would make her debut. He looked at Christine and imagined her standing upon the stage, dressed as Elissa, bowing to thunderous applause as the entire audience rose to its feet in enchantment. Everyone would hear Christine sing. Everyone in attendance at Count Philippe's gala, the great composers and librettists and artists, the government ministers and patrons of the arts, the men and women of the aristocracy, even Raoul de Chagny himself, would fall in love with Christine's glorious voice just as he had.

He turned to Carlotta.

"Very well," he said softly. "Have it your own way, Signora. Walk out of the gala if you will. It'll give Miss Daae the opportunity to show us all what she can do."

"No!" Christine's voice was shrill with terror, and Erik could see that she was trembling. "Erik, please! I can't do this!"

Carlotta's lips drew upwards in a sneer. "You see? She doesn't even want to sing a leading role. Even now she trembles. Look at her, the pathetic little thing…"

"That's enough!" Erik roared. "Christine will sing your role tonight. And if she succeeds, which she surely will, then don't expect a part in the next production, or any other. Now get out of my theatre!"

There was a horrified silence. Erik stared at Carlotta, and saw the diva's bravado melt away. She looked at him helplessly, as if she didn't believe what she was hearing.

"You're…dismissing me?" she asked in a soft voice.

Erik looked down at the floor, suddenly overcome by remorse at the destruction of a friendship which had lasted over ten years. But he knew it was too late to relent.

"Yes, Signora," he said wearily. "You've left me with no choice."

Carlotta made a noise like a muffled sob. Erik looked up and saw that her face was streaked with tears.

"All I wanted was an apology," she said softly.

"Very well, Signora," said Erik, banishing the guilt from his heart. "I'm sorry it had to come to this. And of course I'll be sorry to lose you."

Carlotta drew herself up to her full height, anger blazing through her tears.

"You ugly toad," she spat.

Erik blinked at her in surprise. "A toad, Madame?"

"Yes, a toad!" shrieked Carlotta. "A toad is exactly what you are! A foul, poisonous, ugly, ungrateful toad! And everyone in this theatre knows it. You'll pay for this. Just you wait! You'll pay!"

Erik tried to fake nonchalance as Carlotta flung her fox fur stole around her shoulders and stormed down the steps onto the auditorium floor. Pausing at the front of the stalls, she looked up at Piangi, who was still standing on the stage, apparently unsure where his loyalties lay.

"Ubaldo!" yelled Carlotta.

The tenor lingered indecisively behind the footlights for a moment longer. Then, throwing an apologetic glance towards the assembled company, he scuttled offstage.

Carlotta stalked down the centre aisle with tremendous dignity, disembodied fox tails flapping demonically about her neck. She did not stop when she reached Erik, nor did she turn her head to look at him. When she reached the auditorium door, she turned back to look at the _corps de ballet_.

"Miss Daae!" she cried, and Erik saw Christine jump at the sound of the diva's voice. "I wish you luck. My God, you're going to need it."

And with that, she pushed open the door and was gone.

A moment later, Piangi ran up the aisle in pursuit. He paused in front of Erik, who had never seen the amiable tenor look so angry.

"_Amateur!"_ Piangi bellowed the word into Erik's astonished face. Then he, too, was gone.

Erik was left reeling in the aisle, his every limb trembling with anger. Each member of his opera company stared at him with varying degrees of shock, and Erik had the urge to bolt from the auditorium and leave them to get on with it.

Instead he cleared his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a gala to rehearse, and I think we should begin."

These words drew gasps of protest from the singers, and Monsieur Reyer, who had been indulging his habit of pacing feverishly around the stage, threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of despair.

"Rehearse?" he said. "You want us to rehearse? Erik, we have no one _to_ rehearse. We've lost both our leads!"

Erik forced a smile. Then he raised his voice so the whole company could hear his words. "I understand that you're all concerned about what has happened here today. But this is a strong company which will thrive on new talent. Carolus Fonta is a fine understudy for Ubaldo Piangi. And Miss Daae will prove marvellous in the role of Elissa. I expect you all to give them your full support and we'll have no further mention of the unpleasantness which occurred here today. Thank you."

Reyer gave a shrug and turned to the bewildered company. "Take your places for act one, please, ladies and gentlemen."

Erik watched as the company organised themselves into their positions. Noticing the empty space downstage centre, he frowned.

"Where is Miss Daae?"


	8. The Gala

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! I hope you're all still enjoying the story, and that you like this new chapter. Thanks again for reading!

**Chapter Eight: The Gala**

1. Erik looked frantically around the stage, his gaze alighting on each performer in turn. But it was no good: Christine had gone.

"Where is Miss Daae?" he repeated.

There was a worried muttering among the _corps de ballet_.

"She was upset," said Meg Giry, in accusatory tones which made her sound, for a moment, very like her mother. "She'll be in our dressing room. I should go and see if she's all right..."

Erik did his best to ignore the scowl on Meg's face, but he knew that his rash actions had upset Christine, and it was suddenly his greatest fear that she would refuse to sing. He tried to smile at Meg.

"Please could you take me to your dressing room? I must speak with her."

Meg nodded, and Erik turned to Reyer. "Rehearse the chorus. I must find Miss Daae."

Reyer gave him a long-suffering look, but agreed, and Erik followed Meg backstage and into the mysterious, uncharted territory of the dressing rooms. Erik had not visited this part of the building for several years, and his first reaction was to be shocked by the narrow, claustrophobic corridors, the peeling paintwork on the walls, and the general air of gloom. In places the passageways were hardly lit, the occasional gas lamp giving off an eerie glow. Erik hurried to keep up with the quick, confident steps of his guide, who seemed to know every inch of this bewildering labyrinth.

"This corridor needs better lighting," Erik remarked, making a mental note to discuss the matter with Leferve at the first opportunity. "I'm surprised you don't get lost back here."

Meg shrugged. "It's fine, we're used to it. Take care, sir, the passage gets a little narrow here."

Erik negotiated his way between two inconveniently placed clothes rails which blocked the passage with a forest of ball gowns, gauze skirts and furs. He pushed his way through the costumes, became entangled with a velvet brocade cloak, panicked for a moment, and finally fought his way out. Meg was waiting for him by a door on the other side of the tunnel, her hand over her mouth in an attempt to stifle a giggle.

"Are we there yet?" he huffed in irritation.

Meg nodded and gestured towards a plain wooden door. "This is our dressing room."

"Thank you," said Erik. "You've been most helpful."

Perhaps Meg did not interpret Erik's words as a dismissal, or perhaps she was merely stubborn. Either way, she lingered in the passage while Erik knocked upon the door.

"Miss Daae? Are you in there?"

There was complete silence from inside the dressing room.

"Miss Daae?"

Rolling her eyes, Meg opened the door and marched into the room. Erik remained in the passageway, unsure what to do. This was, after all, a ladies' dressing room, and he didn't want to enter without an invitation. But as the director of the Opera House, it was also, technically, _his_ dressing room. Uncertain of the appropriate etiquette, Erik moved into the doorway, which felt like reassuringly neutral territory.

He was met by a heartrending sight. Christine was sat hunched on a chair, her head cradled in her hands, her elbows resting upon a cluttered dressing table. He couldn't see her face, but he could see her shoulders shaking beneath her mass of brown curls. She was weeping, and trying so hard to do it soundlessly. Meg knelt on the floor beside her, murmuring words of comfort.

"Christine, please don't cry. Monsieur Carriere's here to see you."

"Well, I don't want to see him!" Christine sobbed. "Tell him to go away."

Erik drew back; it had not occurred to him that she might be angry. Meg looked at him over her shoulder and gave a helpless little shrug.

"Thank you, Miss Giry," he said. "You may go."

"But…"

Erik held up a hand, silencing Meg's protest. "Please, Miss Giry. I would like to speak with Miss Daae alone."

With a last concerned glance at Christine, Meg nodded and scuttled out of the dressing room. Erik waited until she had vanished into the thicket of costumes, and quietly closed the door.

He stood in silence for a moment, staring at the weeping Christine. His heart ached to comfort her, but he was at a loss for how to do so. He wished he could put his arm around her, like a suitor might, and let her cry into his shoulder. Instead he lingered awkwardly behind her and gave a polite cough in the hope of winning her attention.

"Christine?"

"What are you doing here?" Once again, her anger shocked him, twisting her beautiful voice so it became harsh and unmusical.

"I came to see if you were alright," he said.

Christine finally turned to face him. Her cheeks were frighteningly pale and her eyes were red from crying. "You mean after you humiliated me?"

Erik stared at her. "I don't understand."

"You told the whole company that I was going to replace Carlotta, even when I begged you not to."

"And what of it?"

"I'm not ready to stand in for anyone, least of all Carlotta." She turned away from him, absently running a finger along the surface of the dressing table, leaving a trail in the dust.

Erik stalked around the back of the dressing table so she was forced to look at him.

"Don't you see, Christine? This is the chance we've been waiting for! Why do you think I've been teaching you, if not to prepare you to sing a leading role one day?"

"I didn't want it to happen like this," she said, her voice dropping to a sad whisper, all trace of anger now gone. "I didn't want to replace anyone. How can you just stand there and talk about this as though it's some great opportunity? That poor woman…"

Erik smiled, and instantly regretted it when he saw Christine's accusing glare.

"I wouldn't waste any sympathy on La Carlotta," he said. "She'll be back."

"But you dismissed her."

"From tonight's performance. As for the future…well, I made no promises. She'll beg me to let her back in the company. You'll see. She'll come back of her own accord as soon as she hears how marvellous you are."

Christine looked up at him and suddenly he saw real fear in her eyes.

"Don't," she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I'm not ready for this. Not yet. You've only been teaching me for two months."

Erik smiled. "This isn't because you're angry about Carlotta. You're acting like this because you're afraid."

"I _am _angry about Carlotta," said Christine. "But yes, you're right. I'm terrified."

"What exactly are you afraid of?"

Christine stared intently into the mirror above the dressing table. "I don't know. Failure, I suppose. The audience laughing at me, my voice cracking, missing my cue, forgetting my lines…everything."

"All the normal things which singers fear," said Erik gently.

Christine wiped her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. "I'm sorry, Erik. I just don't think I can do this."

"Well, I think you can," he said. "You speak of these last two months as if you've achieved nothing in that time. But your voice has developed so much in the space of those two short months, Christine. I wouldn't have asked you to sing tonight if I didn't believe you were capable of it. Don't you trust me?"

Christine nodded. "Of course I do. But Erik, you've never sung in front of two thousand strangers. How can you possibly understand how I feel?"

Erik was silent for a long moment. He stared down at the uncarpeted floor of the dressing room. He sighed. "I understand only too well."

"What do you mean?" Suddenly Christine's eyes were alight with curiosity. Erik sighed; whenever he was with Christine, he seemed to have an ungovernable urge to confide in her.

He turned away, unable to stand her inquisitive gaze any longer.

"Stage fright is a terrible thing, Christine," he said softly. "I could say that you have nothing to fear, but I would be giving you false assurances, and I can't do that. You're right to be afraid, Christine. The world of music can be cruel as well as beautiful. There'll always be someone waiting for you to make a mistake. There will be people who will laugh at you and criticise you and tell you that you don't deserve to be on that stage."

"Why are you telling me this?" There was a note of panic in Christine's voice, and Erik guiltily whirled about to face her.

"I'm only telling you the truth," he said, and suddenly he was aware of the tears burning his eyes. "But Christine, it is far better to venture onto the stage, aware of the risks, and to take the criticisms and the laughter. It is far, far better to have the opportunity to sing, to share your voice with other people who will appreciate its beauty, than for your talent to be wasted and reviled and forbidden expression upon the stage."

Christine was staring at him, and he realised he was trembling. Why was he telling her this? Surely he was simply portraying himself as a particularly bitter individual, and being no help to her at all.

"You have the chance to sing on a great stage, Christine. You have the chance to do what I never could, what I was never permitted to do. Please don't throw such a chance away," he looked down at the floor, aware that his tears were falling freely now. "It would break my heart."

There was a moment of silence, during which Erik inwardly berated himself for showing such weakness and doubtless frightening her in the process. But then he became aware of a gentle pressure against his palms. He looked down in shock and realised that Christine had taken both his hands in hers.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she said. "I'm being very foolish."

"Forgive me, Christine," he said, making every effort to swallow his tears. "I have frightened you."

"I'm not frightened, and there's nothing to forgive," she said, with a strength which surprised him. "Erik, you have done so much for me these past weeks. I will sing for you tonight."

He looked down at their joined hands and smiled. "Thank you, Christine."

"You'll be there, won't you? Watching?" There was a lingering look of anxiety in her eyes.

Erik nodded. "Of course. I'll be watching from Box Five."

Now she smiled, and it was a lovely smile which made her look more beautiful than ever.

"Thank you, Erik. I really am grateful, you know."

"I know." Erik tried to forget about Christine's smile and the light pressure of her hands in his and focus on the practicalities. "I should return to the rehearsal. I'll ask the wardrobe mistress to show you to the star dressing room."

Christine frowned. "The star dressing room? You mean Carlotta's dressing room?"

"It's your dressing room now." Erik looked at the dusty dressing table and grimaced. "You can't stay here, Christine. You'll need more room and your own dresser, not to mention Elissa's costumes. Don't worry, it need only be for one night. If it bothers you, I'll make sure you get a brand new dressing room, the finest in the building."

Christine's expression softened. "Thank you."

"And now I really must be going." Erik gently removed his hands from Christine's grasp. "I will see you this evening, after your triumph."

"Don't you want me to attend the rehearsal?"

"Only if you wish. You know the role, Christine. No, I would advise you to get some rest and then do some vocal exercises. Don't tire your voice needlessly."

She nodded. "Thank you. I'll do my best."

Erik turned to leave. Looking back at her one last time, he caught the lingering traces of doubt on her face, and gave her his warmest smile.

"You'll be wonderful, Miss Daae."

2. Christine stared at herself in Carlotta's enormous dressing room mirror and wondered when she would start to feel excited, or proud, or joyful; anything except fear, and an odd, lingering sadness.

She was dressed in the most elaborate costume she had ever worn. It was a riot of bright colours, with a bodice of red and green velvet and a full skirt bedecked with strings of beads, tasselled trims and gold braid. Jewels glittered upon her throat and wrists, and an intricate golden headdress inlaid with pieces of coloured glass rested upon her loose hair.

For so many years she had dreamed of this moment, the moment when she would catch her reflection in a gilt-edged looking glass and see a prima donna staring back at her. Instead she saw the face of a stranger, ghostly in stage makeup. Perhaps the real Christine had disappeared backstage amongst the sets and properties, lost in a forest of canvas trees. She felt a cold finger of fear run down her spine, and the strange woman shuddered within the mirror.

There was a knock upon the door, and a young man's voice called out: "Five minutes, Miss Daae."

Christine inhaled deeply. This was it. She wondered what would happen if she decided to go now, slip out of the Opera House and into the crowded streets, leaving a stage deprived of a leading lady. Would the opera be called off, or would there be another understudy ready and waiting to go on in her place? Perhaps Carlotta would be in the house, and she could resume her rightful place on the stage. Christine shook her head, willing the thought away. The very idea that Carlotta might be in the audience, waiting to witness her failure and humiliation, was too horrible to contemplate.

She tried to forget about Carlotta. Instead she forced herself to think about Erik, and their conversation in her former dressing room. He had spoken to her so encouragingly, and with such intensity, that she could not contemplate letting him down. Thinking of Erik lifted her spirits. Recently she had found herself thinking of Erik rather more than was strictly necessary. Sometimes she would look out of her window at night and see the moon, which glowed in the same way as Erik's mask did when it was bathed in the light of a lamp. Or she would hear Piangi sing a piece of music and think how Erik could sing it so much better. And sometimes she would think of the way he moved, so gracefully, across a room. Or the way his beautiful white hands would dance upon the piano keys while she sang. He always wore a ring on the little finger of his right hand: a silver ring with a stone of black onyx.

Looking once again at her reflection, Christine saw that her blush was visible even beneath the layer of stage makeup. A new thought had crept up on her, and it was much more appealing than her thoughts of disaster. Tonight, at the party, she would ask Erik to dance with her, regardless of what anyone might think. Smiling, she left the dressing room in a much more optimistic frame of mind.

She found Meg waiting for her in the wings. The dancer gave her a hug and a reassuring smile. Then Christine took another deep breath, looked straight ahead, and listened for the music which would summon her onto the stage.

There it was. She felt her shoulders straighten and her feet move, guiding her into another world, a world of painted tents and paper palm trees.

Christine stood beneath the white hot spotlight of an African sun, and beckoned her voice forth from her parched throat.

And Elissa came to life.

3. The lights dimmed and a heavy curtain crept across the stage. Christine stood very still, feeling disoriented, staring into the creased red velvet.

Then she heard the audience erupt into applause. Dawn broke once again on the stage of the Paris Opera House, and the curtains opened. Christine found herself looking at a sea of clapping hands and smiling faces. She felt someone take her by the hand. She glanced around and saw Hannibal, or rather Carolus Fonta. The young tenor looked exhausted and his forehead was shiny with sweat, but he was beaming at her. At least half of the applause was for him, of course.

Or was it? Christine watched speechlessly as Carolus took one final bow and strode off into the wings. She started to follow him, but he gestured at her to stay. Christine was alone on the stage. The applause continued. She curtsied. And then two footmen walked on from the wings. In their red velvet coats, white tights and powdered wigs, they looked like cut-outs from a toy theatre, vaguely absurd figures from a Regency opera. With expressions of the utmost seriousness, they each presented her with a bouquet of white and pink roses.

But the bouquets weren't really for her, either. They had been meant for Carlotta.

Christine remained standing on the stage that was not really hers, holding bouquets which were not meant for her, and listening to applause which could not possibly be aimed at her.

And then the audience rose to its feet, and she heard it, a soft chant, growing gradually louder: _Daae, Daae, Daae. _And in that moment, Christine realised that this really was all for her. The audience was applauding her voice, her performance, her Elissa.

She swayed slightly, feeling faint. She managed to curtsy one last time before the curtains closed. Then she stood perfectly still, waiting to see what would happen next. After such a curtain call, anything seemed possible.

Suddenly, Christine found herself sucked into a whirlpool of white tulle tutus and silk ribbons. She realised, to her delight, that the entire _corps de ballet_ had come to congratulate her. They were laughing and asking questions and paying her compliments.

"Christine, how did you _do _that?"

"We had no idea you could sing like that!"

"The entire audience got to its feet. I've never seen anything like it."

"Did you see the Vicomte de Chagny? He stood up halfway through _Think of Me_ and started to applaud!"

"Yes! And the Count had to tell him to sit down!"

"Carlotta is going to be mad with jealousy!"

Christine listened to their gossip and laughter, as yet too stunned to respond.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and saw Meg.

"Christine, you were wonderful!" said the dancer, hugging her. She giggled when Christine didn't move to follow her into the wings. "You can leave the stage now."

Christine laughed. "I don't think I want to!"

The other girls were still chatting excitedly and admiring the bouquets, so Christine gave them each a flower. She felt it was the least she could do after they had all been so kind.

"Congratulations, Mademoiselle Daae," said Reyer, appearing behind Meg.

Christine thanked him.

Madame Giry walked onto the stage from the wings.

"There you are," she said, frowning disapprovingly at the dancers, who instantly froze and threw each other worried looks. "Your concentration was abysmal tonight. Too many thoughts of parties. I have a good mind to banish the lot of you to the rehearsal room until morning."

There were murmurs of protest from the girls. Madame Giry caught Meg's eye and winked at her. The young dancer tried to hide a smile as her mother turned to address the appalled ballet girls.

"Yes, there is only one thing to be done. I shall have to order you to stay in the Opera tonight and dance."

The protests grew louder.

Madame Giry's face broke into a grin.

"Yes, dance in the Grand Foyer, to the accompaniment of Monsieur Reyer's splendid string quartet, with several dozen devilishly handsome and highly unsuitable partners, I have no doubt."

Meg gasped, and then started to giggle. "Mother!"

Madame Giry looked at her innocently. "What?"

This was greeted by laughter and sighs of relief from the dancers, who had been momentarily convinced that their mistress was even more of a tyrant than they had often joked.

"Now off you go," said Madame Giry. "Look after each other and behave yourselves. Don't show me up."

The dancers dispersed, giggling and chatting.

Christine watched them go. She had never felt such triumph. And yet it was tinged with sadness: she knew, as the girls of the chorus disappeared into the nooks and crannies of the theatre, that she would never again be one of them.

Madame Giry must have noticed her melancholy expression.

"Come now," she said. "Why do you look so sad?"

Christine looked down at the floor. "I don't really know. It sounds silly, but I suppose I feel alone."

Madame Giry smiled at her: it was a wise smile. She had, after all, worked at the Opera for many years.

"You've just made the transition from chorus girl to soloist, and it is bound to feel strange at first. But just remember this: your friends, the people who really matter, will be pleased for you. Not everyone here is as jealous as Carlotta. And I know at least one person who will be very proud of you."

Christine looked questioningly at the ballet mistress. "Do you mean Monsieur Carriere?"

"Yes."

"You know that he's been teaching me." It was not a question; something in Madame Giry's expression was enough to tell Christine that she knew about the lessons.

"Yes. I know. And I'm so glad. "

"Why?"

"It's just good to see him sharing his music with someone who understands, someone who accepts him for who he is." Madame Giry turned away abruptly, and for a moment, Christine was convinced she had seen tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Miss Daae."

"For what?"

But Madame Giry had already disappeared into the shadows of the wings.


	9. The Red Scarf

Author's Note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews, and for continuing to follow this story despite the huge gaps between updates! I hope you all enjoy this new chapter. Thanks again for reading.

**Chapter Nine: The Red Scarf**

1.

The auditorium was still echoing with the sound of applause, but Erik had long ago ceased to join in. Instead, before the final curtain call was over, he slipped out of Box Five and made his way to his office.

Once inside, alone and safe, Erik tore off the mask and allowed the tears to spill freely down both of his cheeks and beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

Erik knew he ought to be crying tears of happiness. Christine had triumphed, and she had succeeded in part because of his help. But instead he wept at the thought that his friendship with her might now be at an end. After such a performance, why would she wish to resume her singing lessons with him? Of course, it was quite true that many opera singers continued to study with voice teachers throughout their careers. But Erik couldn't see what else he could teach Christine, not after tonight.

He stared sadly at the piano which stood silently in the corner. Christine's sheet music was still spread out across the lid, and the score of _Hannibal _was open where they had left it at the end of their last lesson.

Until now, Erik had not entertained thoughts of what would happen after Christine had made her debut. He had been too happy in the world of music they had created together, content to drift from day to day in a dream world of arias and duets.

But now the dream was over, and Erik realised he was faced with a stark choice. He could sink into misery until the next time he heard her sing, when perhaps he would take comfort from her exquisite voice. Or he could aim for something more.

Erik dried his eyes and rose to his feet. Then he walked decisively over to a small wardrobe and took out the brand new opera cape and wide-brimmed felt hat which he had purchased specially for the Viscount's birthday party. He dressed silently, his hands trembling all the while.

Inspecting his reflection in the mirror, which was kept hung out of sight on the inside of the wardrobe door, Erik realised that something was missing. He thought about the men who, in his first days at the Opera, he had observed calling on their sweethearts in the dressing rooms. They always brought gifts. A box of chocolates, perhaps, or a bouquet of flowers. Erik smiled: a bouquet would be perfect. And he knew just where to find one.

He left the theatre briefly and glanced about the Place de l'Opera. Fortunately it did not take him long to spot the flower-seller who was doing splendid business near the stage door. Tonight she had more customers than usual, a group of young men who seemed greatly relieved to be able to buy gifts for the objects of their admiration at such a late hour. And Erik, who was now feeling rather reckless, was happy to share in their enthusiasm.

A moment later he was back inside the Opera House, carrying a magnificent bouquet of red roses, and heading for Christine's dressing room. Occasionally he berated himself for his foolishness, for surely Christine would reject him? And yet, despite his doubts, he kept on walking, mentally rehearsing the moment when he would present her with the roses and ask her to accompany him to the Viscount's party.

2.

After her brief conversation with Madame Giry, Christine went straight to her dressing room. It was quiet and peaceful in there, and she needed a private place in which to think.

As she changed from her costume and into a peacock blue evening gown (another temporary loan from the costume store), Christine looked at herself in the mirror. She could not quite believe she was the same Christine Daae who had been so afraid earlier that day. She smiled at her reflection, wondering what she would do next. Hopefully she would sing Elissa again, and other roles. But for now she was content.

A knock on the door startled her from her daydream. She went to open it, and was so surprised by the sight of the person standing in the doorway that she thought, for a moment, that she must be imagining things. But he was really standing there, smiling shyly, a bottle of champagne clutched in one hand.

"Raoul?" Her voice was a high-pitched gasp.

"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?" The question was delivered in such an oddly formal tone that Christine was unsure how to respond.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Surely you remember? I rescued it for you. Ended up soaked to the skin. My governess thought I'd gone quite mad."

Christine laughed uncertainly. Although Meg had kept her informed of Raoul's regular attendance at the Opera, she had not seen him in person since that night at the bistro, when he had apparently chosen to completely ignore her. The memory troubled her, and she must have looked puzzled because Raoul frowned.

"Is there something the matter?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's just…you've written to me ever since our summer in Perros. I thought we were friends, but when I saw you at the bistro, you acted like you didn't know me. Why is that, Raoul?"

He looked ashamed. "I'm very sorry, Christine. But you were there with your friends and I did not wish to disturb you. And my brother was being his usual, insufferable self." He gave a forced, embarrassed laugh. "Apart from anything else, I just didn't know what to say to you. It's so many years since I've seen you in person. From your letters, I've always pictured you as Little Lotte."

Christine glanced at herself, briefly, in the mirror. She sighed. "Little Lotte. It's such a long time since anyone's called me that."

"I still thought of you as the girl who loved chocolates and ghost stories more than anything else." Raoul shrugged. "It sounds ridiculous, I suppose."

Christine smiled. "Not at all. If it's any comfort, I always thought of you as the little boy who went into the sea to rescue my scarf."

"But now we've both grown up," Raoul's voice was wistful. "You're a star of the opera. What does one say to a star of the opera?"

"A simple hello would suffice."

"I've been very silly, haven't I?" Raoul laughed and held out his hand. "Hello, Christine, I'm Raoul. Do you remember me?"

"Hello, Raoul. Of course I remember you."

"And I should think so, too," said Raoul, in a mockingly serious tone. Christine shook his hand, and the formality of the gesture made her laugh.

"It really is good to see you," she said, squeezing his hand affectionately. "And I suppose I should say 'happy birthday.'"

Raoul sighed. "Oh God, don't remind me. This entire place has gone mad, and all because I'm a year older. It makes no sense."

There was the sound of laughter from the passageway outside. Raoul glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the open door.

"Oh, no," he said.

"What is it?"

"Christine, do you mind if I stay here? It'll only be for a few minutes."

"No, of course I don't mind."

Raoul went to close the door.

"Thank you," he said, looking at her with relief.

Christine eyed him curiously. "Are you hiding from someone?"

Raoul grimaced. "Yes. My brother. I've just seen one of his friends in the corridor. Some duke or other. Philippe wants me to spend my birthday surrounded by his aristocratic cronies. It was exactly the same last year, and the year before. Only this time the setting is rather grander."

"I take it you're not looking forward to your birthday party, then?"

"Not exactly," Raoul said. He gave a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Christine. You must think me terribly ungrateful, and I suppose I am. My brother thinks a party at the Opera will make me happy, and I know he has gone to a lot of trouble. But he doesn't understand, you see. He doesn't realise that I come to the Opera for different reasons than he. He thinks the Opera House is a sort of gentlemen's club where one goes to meet with friends and drink champagne in the foyers. But I come here to listen. And you cannot imagine my delight when I heard you."

Taken aback, Christine uttered an embarrassed burst of laughter. "I wasn't that good, Raoul."

Oh, but I was, she thought. And I want him to say that I was, but I really have no idea why.

Raoul bowed low and kissed her on the hand. "You were, Christine. You cannot know how divine your voice is… I could never have imagined such a glorious sound. I wanted to find you and offer you my congratulations. I heard you sing when we were children and your voice was lovely then, but I had no idea you could sing like that."

Christine was sure she was blushing. "Thank you, Raoul. You flatter me. But I'm touched. Thank you."

Raoul was quiet for a moment, looking down at the floor. Christine could remember how shy he had been as a boy. Apparently, despite his confident words of praise, that old shyness was still there.

"Are you invited to the party?" Raoul asked suddenly.

"I don't know," said Christine, smiling at the strangeness of the question, for surely Raoul knew who had been invited to his own party? "Am I? I was under the impression that everyone in the Opera House was invited."

"Well, can I officially invite you? As a proper guest of mine? I would love you to sit at our table. It would be nice to have the company of someone I actually know and…" Raoul hesitated, and gave a rather gawkish smile. "It would be nice to have a true friend as my special guest," he hesitated, looking her in the eyes as if searching for an answer there. "I'll understand if you don't want to, but I would love to have the chance to talk with you properly."

Christine was silent. She knew she should feel stunned: for most female performers at the Opera House, this would be the fulfilment of a dream. A personal invitation from the Vicomte de Chagny! Meg would be beside herself when she found out. But when Christine looked at Raoul, she did not see the most eligible bachelor in Paris, but a boy who had once rescued her scarf from the sea. She looked at Raoul and saw happy memories.

"I would love to," she said. "But will your brother mind?"

"My brother has invited every crashing bore within a twenty mile radius. I don't think he really has a right to protest. I'm twenty-one now. I think I deserve some say in who attends my birthday party. And besides, it's not as if he doesn't know you," Raoul's eyes glittered mischievously. "Did he make a good singing teacher?"

"He taught me all the most common flaws which a singer should avoid."

Raoul laughed. "Yes, I expect he did."

There was a knock at the door.

"I hope that's not Philippe," said Raoul.

Another knock, more insistent, and then a familiar voice called out: "Miss Daae, are you there?"

It was Erik's voice. Surprised, Christine went to open the door, and gasped at the sight of the vast, imposing shadow which suddenly towered over her.

Erik was dressed more elegantly than she had ever seen him. He wore full evening wear, the exquisitely tailored suit flattering his tall frame. Over the suit he wore an ankle length black cloak, the collar decorated with tiny jet beads which glinted like diamonds. And on his head there was the most outrageously fashionable hat she had ever seen, a wide-brimmed black fedora which cast a shadow over his masked face. The idea that anyone could consider him ugly suddenly seemed utterly ridiculous. He looked magnificent.

Magnificent, but at the same time terribly self-conscious. With shaking hands, he removed his hat. Then he bowed, thrusting a large bouquet of red roses towards her.

"For the new leading lady," he said, smiling in a clumsy, lopsided manner.

"Thank you," said Christine, taking the flowers from his outstretched hand.

"That was astounding," said Erik, in a breathless voice which sounded so different from his usual, commanding tones. "I've never heard or seen anything like it. It was simply beautiful, Mademoiselle. You should be very proud…" He paused, and Christine realised he was looking over her shoulder at Raoul. His eyes widened in surprise. "Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Good evening, Monsieur Carriere," said Raoul, giving Erik a brief, formal bow.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Christine noticed that Erik was regarding Raoul with an odd expression on his face. He looked almost suspicious. It occurred to Christine that he would doubtless be wondering what Raoul was doing in her dressing room, and she felt embarrassed, although she was not quite sure why. She felt as though part of her old life as a poor country girl had suddenly been thrown into sharp relief in front of Erik. This, of course, was nonsense. Raoul was an aristocrat, and her friendship with him was no reason to be ashamed. She tried to gather her wits.

"Monsieur de Chagny has come to congratulate me," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

Erik raised his visible eyebrow. "I see."

"We're going to the party," said Raoul, looking at Erik as if he were daring him to object.

"Raoul's birthday party," Christine added, fearing that Erik would misunderstand. "Everyone else is going."

"But I've invited her personally," said Raoul, looking at Christine pleadingly.

"Have you indeed?" said Erik, his stare still fixed on Raoul. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I need to speak to Mademoiselle Daae on urgent business."

"You do?" said Christine, looking at him in confusion.

"I'm afraid so," said Erik. He turned to Raoul. "Your brother is waiting for you in the Grand Foyer, Monsieur le Vicomte. He seems most eager to introduce you to the cream of Parisian society. Perhaps you should go and put him out of his misery."

Raoul seemed to shrink under Erik's icy gaze.

"All right," he said. "I suppose opera business is far more important. Good night, Christine."

"Wait," said Christine. "Why don't we all go to the party together? We could discuss this urgent business in the Grand Foyer, couldn't we?"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Erik said. "But it's private business."

Raoul looked at Christine sadly. "Another time, Lotte?"

Defeated, Christine nodded. "Another time."

When Raoul had gone, Christine turned to Erik. Her initial pleasure at seeing him had vanished, and she found herself rounding on him in anger.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" said Erik innocently.

"You embarrassed him. You drove him away."

"I did no such thing," said Erik. "And I'm sorry if you see it that way."

"I don't see why you had to make him go away just so we can talk," Christine looked at Erik, her eyes narrowing. "What is this urgent business?"

Erik was silent. He adjusted the collar of his cloak, turned his hat round and round in his hands. Christine realised that he was nervous, that he could not look her in the eye.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"There is no urgent business, is there?"

He looked up at her, and she was surprised to see that his unmasked cheek had turned bright pink. At first she thought he had been weeping, but then she realised that he was blushing.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He remained silent for a moment, a strangely lost expression on his face. Then, quite suddenly, he began to laugh.

"Erik?"

The sound of Erik's laughter echoed around the dressing room. When it finally subsided, Christine could see tears shining on his visible cheek.

"Oh, Christine," he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I feel ridiculous. I _am_ ridiculous." He looked down at the fedora in his hand. "This hat is completely ridiculous."

Christine looked at the hat, unsure whether it would be wise to argue with him.

"Why do you feel ridiculous?" she said at last.

"Because I thought – absurd notion – that if I put on a new hat and cloak and came to your dressing room with a bunch of flowers, you might accompany me to the party. But I know now that I was wrong, and that your answer would have been no. Forgive me, Christine. I shall take my leave of you."

"No, don't go. Please." She took a step towards him. "Why are you so certain that I would say no? What have I done, Erik?"

Refusing to look at her, he merely shook his head. "It's not your fault, Christine. If you accompanied me tonight, I would embarrass you. I understand."

"Why would I be embarrassed?"

"Because…" He paused, and uttered a gulping sound, as if he was swallowing tears. "Because I know you would not wish to be seen in the company of a man who is so…so…"

"Sit down," she said, leading him towards a chaise lounge, and noticing his look of surprise when she almost pushed him into it. "And if you tell me you're ugly one more time, I may be obliged to agree with you."

For a moment, he looked hurt. But then his lips twitched upwards into the tiniest of smiles. "You're joking," he said.

"Yes, I'm joking." Christine resisted an urge to roll her eyes. "Listen to me, Erik. Not only have you taught me to sing, but you gave me the courage to go out on that stage tonight and share my voice with other people. You helped me conquer my fears, and now I want you to be able to do the same thing."

He eyed her warily. "What do you mean?"

"We're going to the party. We need only go for a short time, if you wish."

He twisted his hands together nervously, and once again she was struck by how such a large, intimidating man could appear so vulnerable, so frail. He was much taller and broader than she, and a great deal stronger, no doubt. But Christine had the oddest impression that one cruel word, one unkind phrase, would be enough to shatter his fragile self confidence to pieces. He was like one of the great marble statues in the Opera's entrance foyer, but instead of marble, he was glass.

And he was shaking so hard.

"You really are scared, aren't you?" she said.

He laughed harshly. "Of course not."

"But you are. You're trembling. Why are you so afraid? Surely it's no different from going to the bistro?"

"You don't understand, Christine. How can you? You're…" he broke off, turning away from her. "You're beautiful. No, don't laugh. You are. You can't possibly know what it's like. For all these years I've done everything in my power to lead a normal life, but I'm not normal, Christine. This…" he indicated his mask. "This isn't normal. This is monstrous. I'm not like…" he paused, and his next words were so soft that she struggled to hear them. "I'm not like the Vicomte."

"Oh, Erik." Reaching forward, Christine laid a hand tenderly on his arm. He flinched away.

"Don't patronise me," he hissed, curling his arm around his chest as if he wished to protect himself from some real or imagined pain. "I'm tired of everyone patronising me. Carlotta, Philippe de Chagny… I don't want to be patronised by you too. I want to be normal, and if I can't be normal, if I can't have the things which other people have, then I would rather be left alone," he covered his face with his hands. "Just go, Christine. Leave me alone. Please."

Christine stared at the figure in the chair, so elegant moments before, now as crumpled and sad as a wilted flower.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said.

"Why?"

"Well, for a start, this is my dressing room."

He raised his head and stared at her in disbelief. She smiled. "But mainly I'm not leaving because you're my friend and I want to help. Will you let me help, Erik? You say I could never understand, but you won't let me try. Every time I try to get close to you, you shrink away. You seem to think you repel me, but I don't find you ugly or repulsive."

"You would think differently if you saw my face."

She gave him an exasperated frown. "Perhaps it's time you showed it to me. Then you'd know that I could never, ever be repulsed by you."

He looked up at her, and she saw the anger in his eyes, and the fear. Somehow, the fear was far worse.

"You wish to see my face," he said harshly.

She took a step backwards. For the first time, the power in that beautiful voice had unnerved her. He spoke as if she had made some terrible, unthinkable request.

"I can't force you to show me," she said, trying to hide her nervousness from him. "But perhaps it would help me to understand."

He was silent for a moment, and she realised that he was staring at his own reflection in the dressing room mirror. His face – the part which she could see – was as blank as his white mask. But his eyes were filled with apprehension.

"I can't show you," he said.

"Why not? Surely I wouldn't be the first? Surely you've shown your face to others before?"

"This is different. I know, Christine, that you're only human, and it's human nature to recoil from ugliness. If I saw the slightest flicker of disgust in your eyes, I just don't think I could cope with it."

"Why?" she asked, suddenly afraid. "Why am I different? Why would my reaction hurt you so much?"

"Because…" He trailed off. "Because…"

"Yes?"

"Because, Christine, I…" he stopped again, as if the words would not come to him, and it was a startling thing to hear such a powerful voice struck silent. He looked at her wretchedly, helplessly.

"What are you trying to say, Erik?"

He was quiet for a moment, averting his gaze from her. When he finally spoke, his words were soft and strangled by tears.

"Because I love you."


	10. The Mirror

Author's Note: I'm so sorry this chapter has taken me so long to post. It took me a while to work out how I was going to handle this part of the story, and I hope I've handled it successfully. I now have a much better idea of where this story is going, so hopefully there won't be anymore four month gaps between updates!

Once again, I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. I really appreciate your support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

To summarise the last chapter, as it's been so long: It is the night of Raoul's twenty-first birthday party, and Christine has just triumphed in a special gala performance of Hannibal. Erik has gone to her dressing room with the intention of inviting her to the party, and has ended up confessing his love for her.

**Chapter 10: The Mirror**

1.

Erik raised a pair of trembling hands to his lips. He covered his mouth, both in shock and the vain hope of stopping the words after they had already escaped.

Once, long ago, he had watched a performance by a ventriloquist. The man had thrown his voice into the mouth of a wooden doll, giving it a different turn of phrase, a different tone and personality to his usual voice. Erik found himself thinking he was very like that doll.

It was as if someone else had spoken the three small words - _I love you_ – words which he had not uttered in a very long time. Or had he ever uttered them? He couldn't even remember.

And as he stared at Christine, as he watched her expression change from shock to disbelief, and finally embarrassment, he knew that it was true.

He loved her.

Suddenly everything made sense.

His first instinct was to flee. To run from the room and out of the Opera House, disappearing into the night. But a kind of morbid curiosity made him stay. He felt as if he was somewhere outside his own body, watching an opera in which he and Christine were the protagonists. And, perversely, he wanted to know what would happen next. He waited for Christine to say something.

"You love me." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but the bewilderment in the three words pierced the disbelief and fear which was clouding his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, backing slowly towards the door. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean it."

"You didn't mean it?"

Erik was startled by the hurt in her voice.

"I didn't mean to _say_ it. I'm so sorry, Christine. Please, forget I ever said anything."

"Nonsense!" Christine no longer looked confused. There was something in her eyes which Erik did not quite comprehend, a strange sort of determination. "You can't just leave. You can't say such a thing to me and then run away." She folded her arms in front of her chest. "I won't let you."

"Don't you see?" Erik could hear his voice rising to a hoarse cry, and he hoped they would not be overheard. "I have no choice. I know you could never love me in return. The contrast is too stark." His voice broke, and his next words emerged as a pathetic whimper. "It isn't possible…"

There was silence in the dressing room. Erik stared at the wall beyond Christine, not daring to meet her eyes, as fresh tears flowed beneath the surface of his mask.

Then he felt a light pressure on his cheek, the softest, gentlest caress. He stared at Christine in wonder, hardly daring to move, as she stroked his face.

"What are you doing?"

Her hand moved over to his mask, resting lightly on the cold, artificial cheek.

"You say you love me." Christine's voice trembled, and he sensed that she was very close to tears. "And yet you hide your face from me. You don't trust me."

He gently caught her hand and lowered it from his face. "That's true, Christine. And I'm sorry. The fact is, when it comes to my face, I can't trust anyone."

"What's wrong with it?"

He would have to tell her the truth. He looked at her anxiously, expecting instant rejection and yet daring to hope for understanding.

"It's disfigured," he said simply. "I was born this way. I learned a long time ago that hiding my face was the only way I could live amongst society."

Her eyes were searching the exposed half of his face, as if she was looking for a hint of what lay beneath his mask. His swollen lips felt more bloated and conspicuous than ever, and he fought an urge to cover his mouth with a hand.

"I knew there must be scars…" Her voice was gentle.

"I'm more than scarred, Christine. Throughout my life, people have found it very hard to look at me. I find it painful to look in a mirror myself."

"Why?" She lifted her hand to his face again, tracing the outline of his mask with a fingertip. "What happened to you, Erik?"

Again, he flinched away from her touch. "Nothing."

She looked at him sternly, and once again Erik was struck by the odd nature of her character, the strange combination of naiveté and perception.

"I don't believe you," she said.

He sighed. "What would you like me to say, Christine? Do you really want my entire life story? Or just the unpleasant highlights?"

"I want to know who you are."

"You know who I am."

"No I don't. No one does, not really. You're always pushing people away. Including me."

"Don't you understand, Christine?" Erik stalked away from her, pacing restlessly around the room. "Everyone who has ever seen my face has reacted with disgust, or fear, or pity. I don't want you to see me that way, Christine."

She took a step towards him, and he saw real anger in her eyes. "Do you really think so little of me, that I would judge you or blame you for the way you look?"

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant…"

"It is! You think that I'm some pathetic little ingénue who would faint at the sight of a few scars."

"Please, Christine, you're not listening to me…"

But Christine was near to tears. "I thought we were friends. Do you really think I care about you so little that I'm incapable of seeing past your face? After everything you've done for me, do you honestly think I'd reject you if I saw you without the mask?"

He sighed. "Yes, Christine, I do. I'm sorry."

"Then show me. Please, Erik. Remove your mask, and let me prove you wrong."

At a loss, Erik merely stared at her. He saw the hurt and anger in her eyes, the wet trails in her makeup where tears had fallen. She was trembling with emotion, and suddenly he realised that he was on the verge of losing her forever. His foolish words had destroyed their friendship.

"If you would only trust me, Erik," she said wearily.

Silently, he looked at her, studying her face and searching her eyes. Could he trust her? Erik had not trusted anyone enough to show them his face for many years. There was Antoinette, of course, but that was different. She had seen him, and he had had no choice in the matter.

He looked at Christine's face, at the sadness and the courage there. She was a brave woman, braver perhaps than he knew.

"I can look at it, Erik," she said gently. "Whatever you're hiding, I can look at it. Trust me." She caressed his cheek a third time, brushing a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. "You shouldn't have to hide your face from anyone."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, for he knew that her request was foolish, that showing her would be a mistake and there could only be one outcome. And yet…

Hardly realising what he was doing, Erik raised a shaking hand to the ties of his mask. Christine's eyes widened with apparent surprise, and she smiled at him tenderly, encouragingly. Overcome by nerves, Erik dropped his hand to his side.

"You'll run from me," he said.

Christine took both his hands in hers. Squeezing them gently, she looked into his eyes. "I won't run."

"You promise?" He sounded like a frightened child.

"I promise, Erik." She released his hands.

Erik reached for the mask a second time, hesitating briefly as his fingers met the smooth porcelain. Then, before his courage could desert him, he lifted the mask from his face. Cool air struck his skin and made him gasp.

He forced himself to look at Christine, to learn her judgment.

The world seemed to slow down, like a sequence from a dream-like ballet. He watched as Christine's face grew as still, pale and ghostly as a face in a photograph. Then, suddenly, she gasped.

It was nothing more than an intake of breath, barely audible. And yet it was enough.

Unable to look at her any longer, Erik tore his gaze away and found himself staring into the dressing room mirror behind Christine. His own, impossible, unmasked image stared back at him.

He had not forgotten the extent of the damage; how could he? But the contrast with Christine's beautiful face made it seem much, much worse, as if a gargoyle was leering over the shoulder of an angel. He stared at his reflection, at his grotesquely swollen lips and his macabre, distorted skull. He realised with a jolt that he had removed the wig as well, for there was his hair, sticking up from his head in wild, untameable patches.

He looked from his own repulsive face, to Christine's lovely and appalled one.

His fingers went limp, the mask slipping from his grasp. His other hand shot up to cover his face. Then, with an anguished sob, Erik turned his back on Christine, wrenched open the door, and fled down the passageway.

"Erik, wait!"

He heard Christine shout after him, but he did not dare stop. He could not bear to look at her, to see the horror and terror and pity in her eyes.

And so he fled from her, running down the claustrophobic backstage corridors, to find a dark corner where he would be safe.

2.

The last thing Christine saw before Erik fled was the mask hitting the floor. It didn't shatter, but the sound it made as it struck the carpet was enough to bring her back to her senses.

The harsh noise of Erik's sobs echoed down the passageway. Christine hesitated for a second, then seized the mask and set off in pursuit.

Although she soon lost sight of Erik in the maze of passageways, Christine kept on running. She could not think what she had done to make him flee. Had she perhaps gasped? She could not be sure. Whatever her reaction, it had been enough to make the colour drain from that extraordinary face, enough to cause his features to contort with shame. And, before she could summon the strength to speak, he was gone.

She glanced down at the mask in her hand. It seemed to glare at her coldly, a dreadful, soulless thing without Erik's face to animate it.

Sobbing, Christine called his name again, but received no answer.

3.

Erik had taken a wrong turn, and now he was lost.

Anxiety flared up from somewhere deep inside his chest, causing his heart to pound. His mind, normally so sharp, was numb with fear. He had run such a long way, trying to find somewhere safe, a place to hide. But nowhere was safe, he knew that. Not without his mask. And now he was lost.

There was a door just ahead – perhaps a door which would lead him outside, into the cover of night? Erik threw his weight against it, forcing it open clumsily, and dived into what he hoped would be comforting darkness.

Then he realised, with growing panic, that he was not outside.

The Grand Foyer blazed with light, and he was surrounded by people, people dancing and laughing to the accompaniment of a string quartet.

He had stumbled, unmasked and unannounced, upon the Vicomte de Chagny's birthday party.

A dancing couple whirled past him. With a startled cry, he reeled out of their path and dived behind a marble pillar, flattening himself against the wall in an attempt to hide in the shadows.

But there were no shadows here, and the wall was a mirror.

His stomach heaved. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down the back of his neck. He was suddenly terrified that he was going to vomit or faint, right there in the middle of the Grand Foyer, with two hundred people to witness his humiliation.

With a moan of despair, Erik sank to his knees. He closed his eyes, not daring to open them again lest he see his own reflection taunting him once again from the mirror. And he did not turn around in case the party guests saw him. The rational part of his mind pleaded with him, telling him that no one would see his face as his hand was pressed tightly to the distortion. And yet he could not bring himself to move, and soon he would be discovered. The string quartet would falter, and everyone would stop dancing and turn to stare at Erik Carriere, the monstrous manager of the Opera.

Someone touched his shoulder. Erik gave a yell of fright, but he did not dare turn around.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

It was Madame Giry's voice. Erik felt something close to relief. It did not matter if Antoinette saw him. She had always helped him, regardless of his appearance. Erik opened his eyes and peered at her over his shoulder.

"What happened?" Antoinette stared at Erik, a concerned frown on her face. "Where's your mask?"

Erik shook his head. "I don't know. She…I must have left it in the dressing room."

"Whose dressing room?"

"Christine's."

"Did Christine take your mask?" There was a note of anger in Antoinette's voice.

"No." Erik's hunched shoulders convulsed in a sob. "She asked me to remove it. She said I could trust her and for a moment I thought that she might be able to look at me, that she might be able to see the man behind the…the…"

"Hush," Antoinette's voice was firm. She patted his shoulder gently. "Don't say it, Erik. You mustn't think ill of yourself. Hush now."

Erik struggled into a sitting position, resting his back against the mirror. He glanced nervously around the foyer.

"Is anyone…looking at me?" he asked. His voice sounded ridiculously small and frightened, but the thought was a terrifying one.

Antoinette smiled. "A couple of people, but I get the impression that they think you're a party guest who has had rather too much to drink."

Erik sighed with relief. Some of the terror had subsided, but he still felt nauseous and weak. He trembled, gathering his cloak tightly around himself. He was uncertain whether he would be able to leave the foyer under his own strength.

"Antoinette, I feel rather unwell. Please would you help me outside? And find me a cab?"

"You aren't seriously thinking of going home alone in this state?"

"Please, Antoinette. I need to get away." He closed his eyes tiredly. "I need to be alone for a while."

Antoinette looked ready to argue. But then she sighed and helped Erik to his feet. His legs were shaking beneath his weight, but with Antoinette's assistance, he managed to walk out of the foyer and down the Grand Staircase. He kept his hand over his face all the while, determined that no one else would see him. An image of Christine's pale, horrified face flashed through his mind, and he shuddered, vowing that he would never show his face to anyone again.

While Madame Giry went to find him a carriage, Erik concealed himself as best he could behind a marble statue of George Frideric Handel. Aside from the statues of famous composers, the entrance hall was empty. It was only a little after midnight: the Viscount Raoul had just turned twenty-one, and Erik knew that everyone would be too busy enjoying themselves to consider leaving the Opera at such an early hour. If Erik listened carefully, he could still hear the voices and laughter from the Grand Foyer, and the sound of Monsieur Reyer's string quartet. He recognised the music immediately: it was the overture to Offenbach's _La Vie parisienne_. Parisian life. Once, in his youth, he had danced to it. Now it was as if the music was mocking him, tempting him with a life which he could never have.

He sighed. What was he doing here? He was a fraud. An ugly man pretending to be someone elegant, educated and refined. The look on Christine's face had told him everything he needed to know. He did not belong in this world of beauty, amongst the great composers and musicians, the aristocrats and patrons. He was not certain where he belonged anymore.

Another, more percussive sound joined the joyful sweep of the music. It was the sound of high-heeled evening shoes on the marble steps of the Grand Staircase.

Erik withdrew even further into the shadows.

"Erik?"

It was her voice. Of course it was her voice: she had pursued him from the dressing room. He watched from behind the statue as Christine reached the foot of the staircase and looked frantically around the foyer. Some of her hair had escaped from its combs and fallen into her eyes. She brushed it away with a tired gesture. Erik saw a gleam of white in her other hand: his mask.

Erik knew he could not remain hidden. He had to speak to her, had to reclaim his mask.

"Christine."

He saw her jump at the sound of his voice as he stepped out from behind the statue. For several minutes they stared at each other in silence. Christine was weeping, and a part of Erik – the part that loved her, despite everything – longed to say something comforting. But in the end, all he could manage were two harsh, clipped words.

"My mask," he said, holding out a hand.

"Oh, Erik! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." She trailed off and looked at him wretchedly.

"My mask, Miss Daae, please."

Christine hesitated for only a moment, and then held out the mask. Erik snatched it from her grasp and turned away, slipping it over his face. When he turned around again, Christine was still gazing at him.

"Erik…"

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked coldly. "Haven't you already satisfied your curiosity?"

Christine looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, Erik."

"For what? That you've hurt me, or are you perhaps sorry that you've seen my face?"

"Your face doesn't matter to me." Her expression was stern and determined, and yet he could hear the tremor in her voice. "Whatever I did to hurt you, I'm sorry."

Erik closed his eyes on tears. He would not cry. She would never see him cry again.

"I know you are, Christine," he said. "And I'm sorry too."

"What do you mean?"

He gave a short, humourless laugh which was more like a sob. "I was right all along, wasn't I? I knew that you wouldn't be able to look at my face, and yet I allowed myself to hope that you could. I expected too much of you."

"But I can look at it, Erik." She took a step towards him, and gestured in the direction of the Grand Foyer. "I'll prove to you that your face changes nothing. We'll forget this ever happened. We'll go to the party…"

Her words caused him pain, for he wished they were true. He wished he could return with her to the Grand Foyer, and dance to _La Vie parisienne_. But instead he held up a hand, pleading with her to be silent.

"Please stop. You have nothing to prove to me. You owe me nothing. I taught you to sing, and you've become a great success. And that is the end of it."

"What are you saying?" But he could tell by the tears in her eyes that she already knew.

"I think it would be for the best if we didn't see each other anymore," Erik replied. "I'm the director of the Paris Opera, and you are a singer in my employ, and neither of us will ever speak of this again."

"But you're my friend…" said Christine. She gave a sob. "You said you loved me."

He wanted to agree with her, to confirm that it was still true. But he knew he could not. He knew it was better to end it now; his heart could not endure anything else. And yet he could not bring himself to deny it either. So he remained silent and helpless as Christine wept before him.

He was saved by the return of Madame Giry, who hurried back into the Opera House, looking flustered.

"Your carriage is waiting," she said. "You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get one at this hour…" She noticed Christine, and her eyes narrowed. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he said, glancing at the ballet mistress. "Everything's fine. Miss Daae was just about to return to the party."

Christine shook her head. "Please, Erik. Can we talk about this?"

"I have nothing more to say." His voice sounded so cold, even to his own ears. "I have to go. My cab is outside."

She reached out and grasped his arm. "Please don't leave, Erik."

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle." He pulled himself free from her grasp and turned his back on her. "Antoinette, will you please see to it that Miss Daae gets a ride home? It's very late."

Madame Giry stared at Erik and then at Christine. She nodded.

"Erik…"

He heard Christine's last tearful plea as he walked away, but he did not turn around, even though he longed to with all his heart. He knew that no good could come of it. And so he kept walking, out of the Opera House and into the night. And Christine's sobs grew fainter all the while, until he could no longer hear her.

Stepping into the waiting carriage, he allowed himself one last glance up at the grand façade of the Opera House. The statues, grotesques and gargoyles seemed to stare at him mockingly.

In the moment before the carriage drove away, Erik wondered if he could ever bring himself to return.


	11. Your Public Needs You

Author's Note: Thanks again for the lovely reviews! I'm so pleased you enjoyed the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this new one. Thanks for reading.

**Chapter Eleven: Your Public Needs You**

Meg had saved Christine a slice of cake. She presented it to her two days after the party, at the beginning of the first rehearsal for _Il Muto_. The cake – a once magnificent chocolate sponge - had been carefully wrapped in a napkin, but nevertheless it was squashed and crumbling. A shower of crumbs fell onto the stage as Christine un-wrapped it. Meg beamed proudly.

"I smuggled it out," she whispered. "It was an enormous cake, but we were only allowed one slice each. I took three, but I saved one for you."

Christine stared at the cake and felt as if she would burst into tears.

"Thank you, Meg," she said, wrapping the cake again and placing it carefully inside the worn leather bag which she used for rehearsals.

"I wish you had been there." Meg was apparently undeterred by Christine's sombre mood. "It was such fun! And I actually danced with a duke! Not a particularly handsome duke, I have to admit – he had a rather unpleasant moustache which curled up at the ends – but a duke all the same! Can you believe it?"

"It sounds wonderful," said Christine absently.

Meg suddenly looked concerned. "What's the matter? You've been so quiet ever since we got here. Where were you the other night? Did something happen?"

Christine shook her head. "I was just tired. I suppose it was all the excitement after the gala…"

The mention of the gala caused Meg 's mood to brighten again. "You were wonderful, Christine. Do you realise that Carlotta isn't back? That means you'll be singing the part of the Countess, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does."

"You don't sound very happy about it. I would give anything to play a leading role."

Christine sighed. "I know, Meg. I'm sorry. I have something on my mind, that's all."

"Tell me." The little ballerina was looking at her with wide, worried eyes, and Christine could not help smiling. Meg could be as gossipy and giddy as anyone she had ever met, but she was always eager to listen.

"I can't. Not at the moment. There are too many people here. Later, perhaps."

Meg shrugged. "You know where to find me."

They waited. More members of the company arrived in the auditorium, still looking pale and tired after the revelries of two days ago. Christine studied her score, trying to concentrate on the Countess's music, but it was like reading some unknown language. She could not focus on the notes, could not turn them into music in her head. Her mind kept returning to Erik. Over and over again she saw his face, and it was not the distortions she remembered, but the terrible look of shame and grief which twisted his features more than any accident of nature ever could.

It had not escaped her attention that Erik was not yet here.

They waited. Christine began to hear mutterings: "Where is he? It's not like him to be late."

This was true; with the exception of the morning of the gala, Erik was normally on time, or indeed early for rehearsals. The company was becoming restless and impatient.

Meg nudged Christine playfully. "Look! The Vicomte's here."

Christine glanced up from her score in time to see Raoul and Philippe take their seats in the front row of the stalls. Raoul caught her eye and gave an apologetic half-smile. Christine looked away guiltily; she had not forgotten Raoul's downcast expression as Erik evicted him from her dressing room.

They waited another five minutes, and Erik still did not appear.

"Where do you suppose Monsieur Carriere is?" Anatole Garron whispered.

Christine had her suspicions, but did not reply, and Meg looked oddly evasive.

"Perhaps he's slept in," someone suggested, earning a few titters from the corps de ballet.

Eventually, when the stage was filled with a cacophony of complaint, a tall, darkly clad figure entered the auditorium and strode down the centre aisle. It was Madame Giry, and she looked pale and worried. Christine noted the dark shadows under her eyes.

The ballet mistress mounted the steps at the side of the stage. Then she brought her rehearsal cane down hard upon the wooden floor. The resulting noise caused most of the company to jump, instantly putting an end to the multiple conversations.

"I apologise for keeping you waiting, ladies and gentlemen," said Madame Giry. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Monsieur Carriere is unwell. He sends his sincere apologies, and has asked me to lead the rehearsal today."

There were concerned murmurs amongst the company. Christine's heart began to race with worry. She knew at once that Erik was not absent because of any illness.

He was absent because of her.

Count Philippe leapt to his feet.

"But this is unacceptable! It's the first day of rehearsal."

Madame Giry regarded him coldly.

"Monsieur Carriere is aware of that. As I said, he sends his apologies."

"He's the artistic director. He should be here."

"He's given me a detailed rehearsal plan. I know what I'm doing, Monsieur le Comte."

"Ah, so he's not well enough to honour us with his presence, but he's still capable of writing a rehearsal plan. It sounds like a very severe illness to me."

"Do sit down, Philippe," said Raoul, reaching for his brother's arm.

"I mean to have serious words with him," grumbled Philippe.

"The man's ill, for heaven's sake!" snapped Raoul. He glanced up at the ballet mistress. "I'm sorry, Madame. Please proceed."

Under happier circumstances, Christine would have smiled at Raoul's outburst. He had always been a shy young man, and yet he possessed a keen dislike of injustice, and had a tendency to stick up for those who were unable to defend themselves. It was one of the things Christine had always admired about him.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Madame Giry. Chastened but still grumbling, Philippe sank moodily into his chair. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to turn your attention to page four of your scores. We begin in the Countess's boudoir. Miss Daae?"

And so they began. Christine sang her way competently through the score, but her heart was not in the rehearsal. She kept thinking of Erik, alone and miserable in his apartment. The company, meanwhile, seemed curiously disengaged. Madame Giry was a firm but fair leader, and she ensured that discipline was maintained and everyone had clear instructions. But without Erik, there was something important missing. Christine remembered the excited atmosphere at the first rehearsal for _Hannibal_, when he had managed to instil into his performers the feeling that they were going to create something special. Erik had a valuable gift; he could make even the most ridiculous opera seem sublime, in its own way.

The Count also seemed to realise that something was wrong. As they rehearsed, Christine was aware of him growing increasingly frustrated with the proceedings. Finally, after a particularly tedious piece of pantomime featuring La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, he leapt to his feet and marched onto the stage.

"No, no, no!" he said. "My dear, we talked about this. You can't wave your arms about in that ridiculous manner."

Sorelli passed a hand over her forehead and gave a tired sigh. "I'm sorry, Philippe. I don't quite understand what you want me to do…"

"I want you to mime the role, not dance it. What you're doing is too close to dancing."

"She _is _a dancer, Monsieur le Comte," said Madame Giry.

The Count threw her an annoyed glance. "I think I know what I'm talking about, thank you, Madame Giry."

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I just need more time to practice," said Sorelli. "I'll get it right next time, I promise."

Apparently satisfied, Philippe whirled around to face Christine.

"And as for you…You need to act more like a Countess. You need to move with more poise, more grace…if you're capable of such a thing, of course."

"Philippe!"

The shout had come from Raoul. Christine looked down into the auditorium to see that he was on his feet, with his hands clenched into fists by his sides, and an outraged expression on his face.

Count Philippe stared at him. His lips drew back in a sneer. "What do you want?"

"Please, Philippe. Do sit down. This isn't helping matters."

Philippe looked ready to protest. But instead he gave a great sigh, and stomped off the stage.

Fortunately, they managed to reach the end of the morning's rehearsal without further incident. Occasionally, Christine would glance at the front row and see the Count glaring at her. She could not imagine what she had done to offend him. She was relieved when Madame Giry finally announced a break for lunch.

The company broke up into small groups of friends. Philippe took Raoul and Madame Giry to one side, and the three began to converse in low, urgent voices.

Meg tapped Christine on the shoulder.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened on Saturday?"

"Oh, Meg…" The tears which had been gathering in Christine's eyes since the beginning of the rehearsal finally began to spill down her cheeks. "I think I've made a terrible mistake."

Meg put her arm around Christine's shoulders. "Come on, let's go to the dressing room. You can tell me all about it."

The little apartment was quiet, and the heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, shutting out the unforgiving sunlight.

Erik knew that he should get out of bed. But he felt so safe with his face hidden beneath the covers that he could not quite summon the will to leave the comforting, artificial twilight.

It had been nearly a week since the night of the gala, and the days had fallen into a pattern. Each morning, Madame Giry had turned up on his doorstep with a concerned expression on her face. Each morning, she had begged him to return to the Opera, and each morning, he had refused, sending her away with an even more worried expression on her face and a detailed rehearsal plan tucked under her arm.

Alone again, Erik would then spend several hours wandering forlornly around his apartment. This morning he had taken a bath, but the warm water had done nothing to soothe his aching heart, which felt as heavy as a rock in his chest. He had eaten breakfast – two slightly stale chocolate croissants and a cup of very strong coffee – but had derived no pleasure from it. He had even sat down at the piano and tried to compose, hoping to occupy his troubled mind with something pleasurable, but it was no good. The music simply wasn't there.

He went to his desk. Taking a piece of Opera House notepaper from a drawer, he began to draft a letter of resignation.

_I regret to inform you that it is no longer possible for me to continue in my role as artistic director…_

He had stared at the dreadful sentence for several long, painful minutes. His hand shook, and ink dripped from the quill, spoiling the paper. He couldn't bring himself to sign the document, and had flung paper and quill down upon the desk in frustration.

Finally, he had slunk off to his bedroom, where he had now been ensconced for more than two hours.

He kept picturing her face. He remembered her pallor, heard the gasp escape her lips, and shuddered in the darkness.

He could not believe he had been so foolish. Hadn't he seen that expression before, on so many other disapproving faces? And that gasp was just an echo of a thousand exclamations, a thousand hissed whisperings in the street: _Did you see that man's face?_

There was absolutely no reason why Christine should be any different.

The silence was suddenly broken by the jangling of the doorbell. Erik sighed heavily, rolled over onto his side, and endeavoured to ignore it.

The bell rang a second time, the sound jarring inside his aching head. Muttering a curse, he hauled himself out of bed and dragged himself downstairs.

He flung the door open and blinked in the harsh sunlight.

Once again, the visitor was Madame Giry. And once again, she looked angry, but her eyes were sad.

"What can I do for you, Madame?"

Madame Giry looked him up and down critically. "I hope I haven't got you out of bed?" Her tone was disapproving.

Erik looked down at the dressing gown which he had thrown unceremoniously over his wrinkled clothing. He suddenly felt embarrassed that Antoinette should see him in such a dishevelled state.

"Not at all," he said, abashed. "Do come in."

Madame Giry followed him up the stairs. She took the armchair in Erik's sitting room while he hurried about, opening the curtains and trying to make the place look presentable.

"Would you like some tea?" He had always pretended to be a gentleman. Why stop now?

"No thank you, Erik."

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"I have croissants." His voice sounded rather desperate; he needed some task, something which would distract him from Antoinette's knowing stare. "We could have something stronger, if you wish. Do you like brandy? But it's only a little after three, is it not?"

"Erik."

"May I take your coat?"

"Erik."

He stopped pacing and stared at Antoinette. He felt his bottom lip tremble. His eyes were so tired from crying, and he was convinced that he would weep again. She smiled at him.

"Sit down, Erik."

He obeyed her, sitting stiffly on the edge of the other armchair, his hands clasped tightly together.

Antoinette leaned forward. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged, but said nothing.

"We missed you at the rehearsal again today," she said. "Everyone's worried about you."

Erik gave a snort of laughter. "I very much doubt that."

"Oh, Erik! I do wish you would stop wallowing in self-pity!"

Erik stared at the ballet mistress in shock. "I beg your pardon?"

"What do you intend to do? Hide yourself away in your apartment forever? Forget about the opera company and abandon us all just because Christine saw your face? I thought such behaviour was beneath you."

"Excuse me?" Erik leapt to his feet and stalked over to the window. "Do you think I enjoy hiding here in the dark? I didn't choose to look like this, Madame. If you had this face, perhaps you would be better qualified to judge whether this behaviour is, in fact, beneath me." His voice was trembling; he swallowed the tears. "Sometimes, when I'm out on the street, I hear people whispering things about me. I hear laughter. You have no idea what that feels like. How can you? Quite frankly, Madame, it often takes a huge effort of will for me simply to leave the house."

Antoinette was silent for a very long time. When she finally spoke, her tone was one of disbelief. "You run an opera company."

Erik closed his eyes. "I get on with things. It doesn't mean that being out in public doesn't terrify me sometimes." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Antoinette. I know it sounds ridiculous."

She shook her head. "I had no idea. I thought you were happy at the Opera."

He sighed again. "I am. Or I was…before Saturday night."

"It was only one night, Erik."

"I know. But if you had seen her face… she went _pale_. She _gasped_. She was horrified. She denied it, but I could tell. I can always tell. I actually thought she might be different…stupid, naïve fool that I am! But it's not her fault, and perhaps, after all, she has done me a favour. She has made me realise I'm just pretending. I'm pretending to be something I'm not."

Madame Giry's eyes grew wide. Under happier circumstances, Erik might have been amused by her sudden resemblance to Meg at her most curious. "What are you talking about?"

Erik turned towards the window and gazed down at the street below.

"When I was a child, I had a toy theatre," he said softly. "It was made out of paper and cardboard. My father bought it for me when he was in London. It was supposed to be the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. It had backdrops you could change and a little stage curtain, and little figures, all made out of card. I loved that theatre so much. I would play with it for hours. I even composed some dreadful, childish operas for it. I would play every character, supply all the voices and sing. That theatre made me want to be on the stage."

"I really don't see what this has to do with anything…"

Erik whirled around to face her, scowling with impatience.

"The Opera House is just another version of that theatre. It's real, of course. But I have no more power and influence over it than I did back then, when I was a boy. All the pieces are in place, but I can't really change anything. I helped Christine triumph, but nobody cares…"

"That's not true."

"…Nobody cares, and now we've started work on a ridiculous, substandard opera just because Count Philippe has decided he wants to play at being a composer! And I can't do anything about it. After all, I wouldn't even be at the Opera if it wasn't for Count Philippe."

"That's ridiculous, Erik. And you know it."

Erik sank down into the armchair. He suddenly felt very tired. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and broken.

"Do you really think the Minister of Fine Arts would have given the artistic directorship to a man in a mask, if the head of one of the most powerful families in France hadn't had a word in his ear? You know he spoke up for me. You encouraged him to do so. Sometimes, I think it would have been better if you had both left well alone."

"And watch a man of your talents waste his life in such an appalling manner? I can't believe you're actually serious, Erik." In a spontaneous gesture which was unusual for her, Antoinette reached out and grasped his hand. "Please. We need you."

Erik knew she was sincere; Madame Giry had always been honest with him, brutally so at times. The Opera House was his life; the thought of leaving it was unimaginable. And yet the thought of returning, of looking Christine in the face and knowing that things could never be the same between them…he could not imagine that either.

He stared at his clasped hands, ashamed of his cowardice and his inability to give Antoinette an answer.

"I just need some time," he said softly, after a moment. "A few more days to myself, to think things over."

Madame Giry pursed her lips, but then nodded.

"I hope you'll make the right decision," she said, getting to her feet. "In the meantime, I've brought something to show you. I thought you might have neglected to read the papers again."

She handed him a folded newspaper clipping.

He looked at her questioningly. "What is this?"

"It's a review of Saturday's gala."

Erik shuddered. He wasn't sure he wanted to relive the gala. It had been a moment of triumph, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. To read the review would surely be a form of self-torture.

He looked up at Madame Giry. "I'm not sure I want to read it."

Madame Giry frowned. "That's your decision, of course. But I think it might help. I need to go now. I have an opera company to rehearse."

Erik heard the disappointment in her voice. Ashamed, he turned away. "Good afternoon, Madame."

With a sigh, Madame Giry left the room and closed the door behind her. He heard her heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then the sound of the front door being slammed shut.

Erik stared into the fire for several minutes. Then, with trembling fingers, he unfolded the review.

His heart lurched; it was by O.G., of course. Reluctantly, he began to read.

_Sometimes, I forget the power of music, its capacity to move me. On Saturday evening, I was reminded of that power._

_I arrived at the Palais Garnier with low expectations. I was previously in attendance for the opening night of Hector Chalumeau's _Hannibal_. That overblown production did little to impress me, and I had no reason to suspect that this grand gala evening, in celebration of the birthday of the Vicomte de Chagny, would be any sort of improvement. _

_How wrong I was. For you see, dear reader, there was one thing which I had not bargained for, and that is the sublime talent of Christine Daae. _

_Miss Daae, a mere chorus girl, was obliged to stand in for the great Carlotta, who was indisposed. When the stage manager made the announcement, there were audible groans of disappointment from the audience. _

_But then we heard Miss Daae sing._

_She is nothing short of a revelation. She has a voice which I have never heard equalled on any stage in Europe, a glorious soprano of such purity that it brings tears to the eyes and joy to the heart. And that is, perhaps, the greatest achievement of Miss Daae: she has a true emotional connection with the music. _

_I'm told that it is Monsieur Erik Carriere himself who discovered Miss Daae, who recognised her potential and promoted her to a principal. If this is indeed the case, it would seem that there is hope for the Paris Opera under his directorship after all. I applaud him for discovering such a sublime talent. _

Erik stopped reading. Tears slid down his cheeks and fell onto the paper, smudging the newsprint. With a deep sigh, he walked over to his desk, picked up the letter of resignation, and threw it onto the fire.


	12. In a Foreign Tongue

Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, and thank you to everyone who is still reading this story! It has become a slightly more complex story than I had originally intended, and it has certainly gone in a slightly unexpected direction! I hope you're all still enjoying it, and, as ever, I'm grateful for any feedback.

**Chapter Twelve: In a Foreign Tongue **

1.

"You didn't hear it from me, but Monsieur Carriere's back."

Christine stared at Meg, who was unable to hide a grin. Erik had been absent from the Opera for over a week, and they were all starting to tire of the behaviour of Count Philippe, who seemed to think he had a right to lead the rehearsals. She quickly beckoned Meg into the prompt corner, so they would not be overheard.

"Since when?"

"This morning. Mama's in his office now."

"Is he - " Christine hesitated, looking away shyly. "Is he alright?"

Meg shrugged, a rather clumsy gesture for such a graceful dancer. "Who knows? He looked well enough, but you know Erik. It's so very hard to tell."

Christine knew what Meg meant. Generally speaking, Erik was very good at concealing his emotions. She suspected that she was one of the few people to have seen him weep (even, occasionally, at a particularly poignant passage of opera). Given their recent parting, the thought did not exactly cheer her.

"Is he back to stay?" She dreaded Meg's answer.

"I don't know. Don't tell anyone, but Mama went to see him last week, and he was having real doubts about his future at the Opera."

Christine suddenly felt very cold. "But this is terrible! He can't go."

"And he is not," said a voice. The girls jumped.

"Mama!" Meg gasped. "You startled us! Is Monsieur Carriere really staying?"

Madame Giry nodded, smiling indulgently at Meg. "Yes. But I think he would appreciate it if you would not gossip about him quite yet." She turned to Christine. "My dear, he wishes to see you."

"But surely I'm the last person he would want to see?"

The ballet mistress raised an eyebrow. "Nonsense. Why do you say that? Now please hurry. He doesn't appreciate being kept waiting."

Christine gave Meg an uncertain glance and made to leave the wings.

"Miss Daae?" Madame Giry's voice caused her to pause. "I can assure you, he's just as nervous and sorry as you are. Do be patient with him."

Surprised, Christine nodded. Slightly reassured, she made her way to Erik's office.

She knocked hesitantly, and was greeted with a wary "Come in."

Erik was seated behind his desk. As she entered, he automatically lifted a hand to his mask, as if to hide his face from her once again. But he fought the gesture, threaded his fingers together, and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "I trust I find you well?"

She was so startled by his formality that it took her a moment to reply.

"Very well, thank you." She paused. "How are you?"

"Perfectly well, thank you." His voice was empty of emotion, and Christine knew immediately that she did not believe him. He looked tired and ill, his face almost as pale as his mask. A dark shadow hung from his eye. He looked as though he had not seen the sunlight in a week, and she felt a wave of pity when she realised this was most likely the case. Poor Erik! She could not bear to think of him hiding in his apartment, like a recluse.

She swallowed nervously. "Erik, I…"

He held up a hand to silence her. "Won't you sit down?"

She obeyed, sitting in an armchair opposite him, the vast desk between them.

"Erik, I hope you know how very sorry I am…"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Please don't. I know you're sorry. I'm sorry too. Please can we just leave it at that?"

Christine stared at her hands, which were neatly folded on the desk to prevent her from fidgeting. "I hurt your feelings. I'm not quite sure how, but I clearly did."

"You didn't hurt me." He smiled wistfully. "In fact, you made me see sense."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "I've had a great deal of time to think this last week. I've been trying to remember why I first came to the Opera, and why I accepted the position of director. Music is everything to me, Christine. That is why I am here, and that is why I wished to teach you." He pushed a newspaper towards her. "I suppose you've seen this?"

Christine looked down at the paper and blushed. It was the review she had received from O.G. in _Le Epoque_, two days after the gala.

"I'm sure he's over exaggerating," she said.

He gave a short laugh. "You're too modest."

"He says I'm the greatest singer in Europe. That can't be true."

"O. G.'s expressions border on the theatrical, but I believe his sentiments are genuine enough." Erik frowned. "I've had so many bad reviews from O.G. in the past, that now I've finally read a positive one, I'm starting to think he may have been right all along. About everything."

"But he wrote terrible things about you."

"He commented on my lack of musical education and the fact that I try too hard to pander to the tastes of powerful patrons. I only accepted Il Muto because Count Philippe asked me to, and I can't quite believe that I've been so weak."

"But the Count's your most faithful patron."

"The Opera should be more important than his patronage." Erik almost growled, and Christine shivered. She wasn't quite sure where this conversation was going, or what it had to do with her. "What do you make of Il Muto?"

Caught off guard by the question, Christine hesitated. "Rehearsals have been difficult without you."

Erik looked almost grateful, but then his eyes grew cold again. "It's a disaster. A musical travesty. An awful piece of derivative nonsense. And if it wasn't already too late, I would cancel the whole wretched thing."

Christine was shocked. She had known Erik did not care for Count Philippe's music (she was not overly keen herself), but the bitterness in his words surprised her.

"I will allow the Count to pursue his vanity project." Erik's voice had grown weary. He sighed again. "What I cannot allow is for your talent to be corrupted by it."

Christine stared at him, her heart racing. "What do you mean?"

Erik suddenly sat up straight behind the desk. He looked every inch the commanding impresario, business-like and formal.

"I will not allow you to sing the role of the Countess," he said simply.

She gasped. She could hardly believe what Erik was saying. "But I've learned the role. I _want_ to sing it."

"I'm afraid that's no longer possible."

"So you wish for me to return to the chorus?" Christine tried not to raise her voice. She was not given to displays of anger, but it was a struggle for her to remain calm. "After all the work we've done together? I can't believe you would ask such a thing of me, Erik."

He folded his arms defensively.

"I'd be grateful if you would address me as Monsieur Carriere."

"Very well. Your behaviour is ridiculous, Monsieur Carriere."

Erik rubbed a hand over his forehead in a weary gesture. She noticed that his skin was shining with sweat, and she wondered again if he was unwell.

"Miss Daae, I do not intend for you to return to the chorus. Far from it. I simply do not wish for you to waste your talent on such a badly written role. Do you wish to damage your reputation?"

Christine suppressed the urge to laugh. "This is not about my talent, or my reputation! This is because you don't feel able to work with me because I've seen your face. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, they did warn me. I've heard the rumours that you fired anyone who saw your face, or who dared to comment upon your face. And I never believed them, but it seems they were true."

"Miss Daae, will you please be calm?"

"Erik, will you please stop talking to me in such a patronising fashion? How many times do I have to apologise? How many times do I have to tell you that your face does not bother me?" She paused, and slumped back in the chair, suddenly feeling very near to tears. "I don't know what I can say to reassure you. If you wish to continue in the belief that everyone will reject you because of your face, then I suppose there's nothing I can say to convince you otherwise. But please, do not punish me for it."

Erik looked momentarily startled. He stared at her open-mouthed, and for one brief, triumphant moment, Christine thought that he must finally believe her, and would reconsider. But then Erik regained his composure, and rose to his feet. Turning his back to her, he stared out of the window, which could not have afforded him a particularly fine view, as the curtains were half closed.

"I have received a letter from the director of Covent Garden. I know him personally, and he is a very good man. He wishes to stage a production of Faust in two month's time. He requires French speakers, as he intends to stage the opera in the original language. You know the score, I suppose?"

Christine ignored the question. "London. You wish for me to go to London?"

"Of course you know the score. It will be a great opportunity to further your career, Miss Daae."

Christine was forced to wipe tears from her eyes. "But I don't want to go to London. My career…my home…is here." She shook her head. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you would do this. And after you said you loved me."

Flinching, Erik turned to look at her, and she realised that, although he was trying very hard to conceal his emotions, his eyes were impossibly sad.

"Believe me, you must take advantage of this opportunity. Performing for a different audience, in a country which is not your own, is a great thing for a singer. You would have to go quite soon, of course. Next week at the latest. But I would ensure that everything was ready for you." He smiled sadly. "Covent Garden is a fine opera house. You will be quite safe, and feel quite at home. And it will only be for a few months, until Il Muto is over."

"And then I can return?"

Erik was silent for a moment, apparently considering the matter.

"Yes," he said at last. "You can return. And perhaps then we shall have something worthy of your voice."

Christine was silent for a moment, considering. She was angry with Erik. She had never given him any indication that she wished to travel, and the thought that he had made such plans without her knowledge annoyed her. And yet, he seemed to offer her no alternative.

"I don't know what to say."

Erik took a step towards her and held out a hand. For a moment, Christine was convinced that he was going to caress her cheek, but then he withdrew his hand with a sigh.

"I'm doing this for the best reasons, Christine. Please trust me."

Christine stared at him for a moment. "I would, except _you _won't trust_ me_."

He looked at her sadly, and turned away again. "Thank you, Miss Daae. You may go."

2.

Meg was in tears. "But you won't leave, will you? You can't go to London! I'll miss you!"

Christine gave her friend a hug. "It's only for a few months, Meg," she soothed. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me. And besides, it might even be exciting."

She was trying so hard to convince herself, but inside she was terrified, and Meg clearly knew it.

"But they don't even speak French there," said the little ballerina, with obvious horror. "If you have to go, then I'm going with you."

"Oh, no, you're not," said Madame Giry darkly.

The company were gathered at the front of the stalls, where a tearful Christine had been forced to tell them the news. The atmosphere was sombre, and Christine derived some comfort from the disapproval of her colleagues when they learned of Erik's plan, but it was not quite enough.

"I can't believe he's doing this," said Monsieur Reyer, shaking his head sadly. "Miss Daae has learned the score. This could set us back weeks."

"He shall not do this, because I will not permit it!" said Count Philippe, jumping to his feet. "Who does he think he is? I'm going to speak to him at once…"

"I will speak to him," said Madame Giry, rising and picking up her rehearsal cane. "You will only succeed in getting him all worked up."

The Count glared at her, but was silent.

"As for the rest of you, I think it's time you all went home." Madame Giry looked at Christine sympathetically. "My dear, if you wish for some company, you'd be very welcome to stay with Meg and me tonight."

Christine tried to smile. "Thank you. But I think I would rather be alone for a while."

She watched as the company filed out of the auditorium, shooting her pitying glances as they went.

"Won't you at least walk home with us?" said Meg. "Perhaps we can go to the bistro on the way."

"Thank you, Meg. But I'm fine. Honestly. You go ahead. I just want a few minutes alone."

Meg looked at Christine sadly, then scuttled up the aisle in the wake of the other ballerinas.

Christine stared out at the dark auditorium, the rows of empty seats and the great chandelier. Closing her eyes tightly, she breathed in the smell of sawdust and paint from the newly built set. She listened, but heard nothing. She wondered what the Covent Garden Opera House was like, and if it would ever be as dear to her as this theatre. Of course it would not. Again, she found herself wiping away tears.

"You don't have to go, you know."

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. It echoed around the silent auditorium, making her jump. She spun around to find a familiar face smiling at her.

"Raoul! You gave me quite a fright!"

"I'm sorry," he said hastily, when he saw her startled expression. "It's just…I saw that you were upset, and I just wanted you to know that I think Carriere has treated you appallingly. You don't have to go to London. I know Philippe still wants you to sing the Countess, despite all his histrionics. He'll speak to Carriere tomorrow."

Christine turned away, folding her arms. "I'm not sure I want to sing it anymore. Not when Erik wants me to leave." She sighed. "If only I could begin to understand him."

"I shouldn't even try." Raoul smiled. "We never had that dinner, did we?"

"No. We didn't."

"Would you care to join me at the bistro tonight?"

Christine looked at his eager, kind face. "Oh, Raoul. I'm grateful, I really am. But I fear that I would be very poor company."

"Nonsense! I would be delighted if you would join me. And then, perhaps, we can work out what you're going to do next. Or we could just reminisce about the old days." His voice was soft.

"Oh, very well," said Christine. "I would be glad of the company, if I'm honest. Thank you, Raoul."

Raoul smiled, and together they walked through the shadowy theatre. As they left, Christine fancied she heard someone cry out as if in pain, but dismissed it as the sound of the wind.

3.

Erik's office was silent, apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The sound was oppressive.

He had stayed here since Christine had gone, unable to summon either the courage to go to the auditorium, or the energy to return to his apartment. It was nearly five pm. The rehearsal would be almost over. If he only waited a few minutes more, he would be alone in the vast, empty theatre.

A voice hissed at him from somewhere inside his mind.

_You fool. How could you send her away? You still love her. Admit it. And now you've driven her away, like the coward you are. _

He tried to reason with the voice: _It was the right thing to do. I sent her away for honourable reasons._

_Nonsense! Christine was right. You drove her away because you couldn't bear to see her everyday when you knew she had looked at your face. You're a coward. _

Moaning in despair, Erik covered his ears with his hands, as if the gesture could block out the thoughts that insisted upon tormenting him. He began to weep, the tears soaking the velvet cuffs of his jacket.

_Coward. Coward. Coward._

There was a knock on the door. Erik let his hands fall onto his lap. Then he heard his own voice, quiet and weak and hardly recognisable, but oddly hopeful:

"Christine?"

"Erik?" The voice was not Christine's, but it was a familiar voice. "May I come in?"

Erik frowned. It was Antoinette. He could not allow her to see him like this, with his heart broken and all his strength gone.

He took a deep breath and tried to give his voice its familiar power. "I'm fine. Go home, Antoinette."

"I don't believe you." Antoinette's tone was suspicious. "Please let me in. I need to talk to you."

"I just want to be left alone."

But Antoinette was not to be discouraged. She adopted the tone which she frequently used when dealing with wayward ballet girls.

"Erik Carriere, if you don't open this door at once, I'll arrange a private party for you at the bistro, and I'll invite every theatre critic in Paris and every aristocrat bearing the name of de Chagny. And I'll make you eat snails in garlic butter. And I'll force you to listen to Monsieur Reyer play Gilbert and Sullivan arias on the piano all night long. And I'll sing."

Erik sighed. Antoinette obviously had no intention of leaving him in peace. He walked unsteadily across the room and wrenched open the door.

All trace of humour gone, Antoinette stared at him, her eyes wide with concern. "Erik, you look dreadful! What on Earth's the matter?

Erik tried to glare at her. He wanted to shout at her, to exert his authority, to insist that she leave him alone, but once again he could feel his strength ebbing away.

He grasped hold of the doorframe, trying to steady himself.

"Erik? What's wrong? Please tell me!"

Erik looked at her helplessly, and all the words of warning and accusation died on his lips.

"She's leaving," he whispered. Then he burst into tears and staggered towards the couch.

Antoinette rushed after him and caught him beneath the arms as he fainted.


	13. The Story of Erik Carriere

**Author's Note: **Thank you to all those who read and reviewed the last chapter. This chapter is a little different from the others, because it is the chapter in which I begin to detail Erik's past. To differentiate between the main story and the past sections, I have decided to write the latter from Erik's POV. I hope this works, and that you enjoy it!

I must acknowledge the 1943 film version of Phantom of the Opera, which has been a slight inspiration for some aspects of this chapter. See if you can spot the quote from it :)

Happy New Year! And many thanks for your wonderful support in 2012!

**Chapter Thirteen: The Story of Erik Carriere**

"Well, I can't find anything physically wrong with you, Monsieur Carriere."

Erik glared up at the doctor. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Doctor Ledoux smiled at him benignly. He was a middle-aged man with a perpetually sympathetic expression, the perfect combination of professionalism and kindness. He had been the Opera's favoured physician for many years, and Erik had always respected him greatly. Except tonight, when he was the object of the man's concern.

"People – particularly gentlemen – do not faint without reason."

Erik folded his arms. "I did not faint! I simply felt light-headed for a moment. I'm fine now."

Madame Giry rolled her eyes. "Really, Erik! Why can't you just listen to what Doctor Ledoux has to say?"

"I am not like one of your silly ballet girls, Madame, whatever you may think."

Madame Giry sighed. "I did not imply that you were, Erik."

"I think this is a simple case of tiredness, Monsieur Carriere," said Ledoux. "I believe you might be overworked. Perhaps you should take a holiday."

Erik stared at the doctor for a long moment.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Did you say a holiday?"

The doctor nodded. "Rest and relaxation. Or, perhaps, a simple change of scene."

Madame Giry nodded, rather too emphatically, Erik thought. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell him for the last three years."

Erik pushed away the crocheted woollen blanket with which Antoinette had insisted upon covering him, and rose unsteadily to his feet. Using the nearby desk as a brace, he stood before the two concerned individuals and pointed to a tall pile of paperwork.

"Have you any idea what this is, Ledoux?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows. "It looks to me very much like paperwork."

"That's correct. And there is far more. Far more paperwork where that came from. Whole rooms simply crammed with paperwork. And there are meetings, Monsieur. So many meetings, with so many people. And there are endless rehearsals. And performances. And more rehearsals for more performances, and then I have to start planning for next season, and you seriously expect me to take a holiday?"

Erik folded his arms, grunted contemptuously, and waited for a reaction. Antoinette and Ledoux continued to stare at him with varying degrees of worry, and Erik suddenly felt very tired indeed. He slumped back down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. He realised that they were shaking.

"Thank you, doctor," said Antoinette. "Would you please leave us for a moment?"

Erik heard the heavy footsteps of Ledoux as he left the room. He did not look up, not even when Antoinette sat down on the couch next to him.

"This might be just what you need, Erik," she said.

He shook his head. "I couldn't leave the Opera. You saw what happened while I was away last week…the place descended into mayhem…"

"That won't happen, because you can leave detailed instructions, and we'll get someone to take care of it while you're gone."

"It's my home."

Antoinette rested a hand gently on Erik's shoulder.

"I know. But perhaps, if you were to go away for a while, you could gain a new perspective on things…"

"You mean Christine."

Antoinette nodded. "You love her, don't you?"

Erik looked at the wise face of the ballet mistress and realised that there was no point in denying it. Antoinette had known him for more than fifteen years. Sometimes, he suspected that she had a greater insight into his character than he did himself.

"Yes. I think so." He swallowed hard. "I've treated her very badly, haven't I?"

Madame Giry said nothing.

"I've been cruel and heartless."

"You're frightened."

"Yes."

"You must not be frightened of Christine, Erik. She is the most sincere person I have ever met. And if she tells you that your face does not bother her, then I think you should believe her, or at least give her the chance to prove that she's telling the truth."

"How can she be telling the truth? How could she fail to be repulsed by this face?"

"Has she ever given you any indication that she's repulsed by it? Think carefully, Erik."

Erik ran a distracted hand through his wig. "Well, she did gasp."

"In surprise, I would suggest. And perhaps relief that you finally trusted her enough to remove your mask." Madame Giry smiled. "Whether you believe it or not, Erik, I think she cares for you."

"But I don't know what to do!" Erik was on his feet and pacing about the office, making himself feel rather dizzy. "What do I do, Antoinette?"

"Well, you could begin by making amends. Ask her to stay. And if she agrees, you could invite her out to dinner."

"Invite her out to dinner?" Erik stared at Antoinette as if she had just suggested they take a trip to the moon.

"Why not?" The ballet mistress smiled. "It wouldn't be too difficult, would it? And perhaps you could also do what you promised, and write her a great role. You could finish your opera. Perhaps she could even assist you…"

Erik sighed. "You're right, as usual. I will speak to Christine tomorrow. I'll ask her to stay…if she wishes to. But first there are other matters which need to be dealt with."

"And what are those?"

"I meant what I said about Christine. I refuse to allow her to sing that terrible opera. Il Muto is a disaster waiting to happen, for her career and for this theatre."

Madame Giry stared at him, and Erik saw real fear in her eyes. "What are you going to do?"

"I think I've been Count Philippe's puppet for far too long. I refuse to be influenced by him any longer."

"But Erik, the Count is…"

"My patron. I know. But don't you see? The reputation of the Opera is more important than that man's vanity projects."

Madame Giry tried once again to lay a hand on Erik's arm, but he pulled away, and stalked towards the window.

"You must know I'm right," he said.

"I agree with you, Erik. You know I do. But without Count Philippe, there would be no Opera…"

Erik whirled around. "Without _me_, there would be no Opera!"

Madame Giry took a step backwards, and Erik felt remorseful for losing his temper.

"I'm sorry, Antoinette. I didn't mean to snap at you. But you must see that I can't let him do this. Not anymore. Please would you send for him first thing tomorrow? I think it's about time we had a frank discussion about the future of the Opera."

There was silence. Erik was panting. He still felt weak after the evening's events, and he suddenly wanted to be alone. He waited for Antoinette's reply.

"Very well," she said. "I'll send for him. But please, Erik. Don't say or do anything rash…"

"Thank you," said Erik, ignoring her plea. "And now I would like to be alone."

When Madame Giry had gone, Erik turned towards the window and looked out at the quiet streets. He hoped that Christine was not too upset. He had been a coward and a fool, but there was still time to put things right.

Tomorrow, he would tell the count that his patronage would no longer be required.

But for now, he found himself remembering a different life, when Count Philippe's influence as a patron had meant everything.

**Fifteen years earlier…**

I'm not dressed for an occasion such as this. I'm wearing my best suit, of course, but it is a little too large for me, and the hem of my cloak is frayed. A servant – I forget which rank – looks at the cloak in distaste as I remove it, as if wondering whether such an item is fit to grace his master's cloakroom.

The Count de Chagny glares at his employee. "Well, man, what are you waiting for? Take Monsieur Carriere's cloak!"

The servant eyes me suspiciously, but takes the cloak from my hand without comment.

Chagny smiles at me, and indicates that I should follow.

He opens a door, revealing a room filled with grandeur. Grand things, grand people. But the thing which almost causes me to swoon is the smell. The scent of good food, piled high on silver platters. A glorious smell of fragrant cheese and cooked meat and something sweet and sugary. My stomach rumbles, and I glance embarrassedly at Chagny. I hope he does not hear it.

Soup is what I'm used to. Soup and bread. My landlady complains about this – "The same soup, night after night, week after week". She thinks I'm being ungenerous with my money. She persists in the belief that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, I am actually rich.

I'm young, but I'm a realist. I know Chagny has not invited me here as a guest. Rather, he has invited me as part of the evening's entertainment. I'm used to it, of course. Singing for my supper is a reality of my life, and I'm accustomed to performing in far less salubrious places than the Count's town house. But despite the grandeur and the Count's impeccable manners, the place makes me uncomfortable. I know that I'm not part of this world which I have been summoned to enter.

I eye the crowd with interest and wonder what will be required of me tonight. The audience is well-dressed, the ladies almost drowning in absurd upholstered creations, and the gentlemen in evening suits far newer and finer than my own. They don't look like the sort who would enjoy a folk song, or the kind of ditty I am accustomed to performing at the cabarets.

Each pair of eyes - twenty, a large crowd - is fixed on me, and they don't look particularly friendly.

"Good Lord, Philippe! What the devil have you got there?" This from a man with a ridiculous waxed moustache.

Chagny grins. "This, my dear fellow, is Erik Carriere, the finest tenor of his generation."

I turn to stare at him, and he winks at me.

"Is this a joke?" says a thin, bespectacled gentleman.

"Not at all," Philippe replies. He turns back to me. "Monsieur Carriere, may I introduce Monsieur Richard and his partner, Monsieur Moncharmin. Directors of the Paris Opera."

The Paris Opera. The name makes me shiver. I've walked past that great theatre so many times since my arrival in this city. Occasionally I've lingered by the stage door, watching the singers and musicians filing in, and wondering what it must be like to perform in such a grand place. The audiences are a sight to see as well, walking delicately up the steps to the entrance, a sea of tall hats and satin dresses and fans.

I stare at the two managers as if they're a pair of exotic creatures from a far-off land. I must be staring at them quite intensely, because after a while they begin to look uncomfortable.

"Monsieur Carriere is going to sing for us this evening," says Chagny.

"Oh, how lovely!" says a young lady in a nearby chair. Her voice is so shrill that the sound makes me jump.

Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin exchange glances, and then turn twin glares upon Chagny.

"Now look here, Philippe. We accepted your invitation expecting to come to a party," says Richard. "If this" - he pauses, and looks down his nose at me – "_gentleman_ is serious about auditioning, perhaps I can give him my card…"

But Philippe is adamant. "No, you must hear him here! Tonight! And now, music, please…"

He waves towards the grand piano. A gentleman begins to play in what, I must say, is a rather uninspired, weary manner. I hesitate, not quite daring to cross the room, to walk beneath the glare of the chandeliers.

"Well, go on." And Philippe lightly pushes my arm.

And so I go. Hunching my shoulders, trying to keep my masked face hidden from the curious eyes, I walk towards the beautiful instrument and its indifferent player.

And I sing.

I sing, and I watch their faces. I see their expressions transform from suspicion and fear to intrigue and even pleasure. This is nothing, of course. It always happens, regardless of the venue, or the class of the audience, and I know that their pleasure will not last. When I stop, they'll look at me and see that it was just a monster in a mask singing all along, and they'll feel cheated.

This is what I've learned.

My voice can deceive for a short time. It can convince those in my presence that I am, perhaps, handsome, beneath the mask. And when I sing, I almost _feel_ handsome. I straighten my back and dare to look my audience in the eyes. Chagny is smiling at me, and in the corner of the room I can just make out Mademoiselle Giry, the little dancer, smiling too.

And I realise that it must have been her who convinced Philippe to let me sing tonight. I'm not sure whether I should feel gratitude, but my lips – or what passes for my lips – turn upwards in a smile.

I focus on Mademoiselle Giry's gentle face, and I sing. I try to make everyone in that room understand that I am human, just like them. I turn my masked gaze towards the opera house managers, who are staring at me, their expressions frozen in wonder. And I hope that just once, someone will see that I am a singer, not a sideshow novelty.

I am an opera singer. Surely, despite everything, they can hear that? No, don't look at my mask. Don't be distracted by my appearance. Listen to me!

I have reached the end of my song. There is an intense moment of silence. My audience exchange bemused glances, and then everyone turns to look at Chagny, as if awaiting instruction.

He begins to applaud. The audience sags with relief and applauds too. And, despite my misgivings, I permit myself a bow.

The applause continues for quite some time. And after a moment Chagny obviously feels obliged to rescue me. Swooping forward, he guides me towards the refreshment table.

"I do believe this calls for champagne," he whispers, pouring two glasses and offering one to me. Thanking him, I take it and sip it awkwardly, hindered slightly by the mask. It is a far cry from the absinthe they drink at the cabarets, a dreadful substance which I've never been able to stomach.

Chagny grins and inclines his head towards the opera managers, who are deep in conversation by the door. "Look at those two fools. I think they're arguing over whether to sign you up."

My eyes widen. "Do you really think so?"

Chagny nods. "Most definitely. Richard is, first and foremost, a music connoisseur. He will want you. Moncharmin, a more practically-minded man, will be seeking to talk him out of it. But don't worry. I'll soon convince him otherwise." He strides over to the managers, and not for the first time I'm agog at the easy confidence of the aristocracy. "Gentlemen! What did you think of our remarkable Erik Carriere?"

Startled from their discussion, the managers look at me nervously.

"Quite remarkable," says Richard, forcing a smile. To his credit, he offers me his hand. "You have a great talent, Monsieur Carriere."

"It is most certainly unique," says Moncharmin, eyeing me above his spectacles. His partner glares at him.

"I am Monsieur Carriere's patron," Chagny says, not wasting any time. "And I am also yours, gentlemen."

"What do you mean by that?" says Moncharmin.

"I believe that a talent such as Monsieur Carriere's would be an asset to the Paris Opera. We need new talent, fresh talent…"

Richard is nodding enthusiastically, and I realise that I respect him. "Of course, of course, you're quite right, my dear Count. But there are, if you'll forgive me, some issues we need to address…" He looks directly at my mask, and I drop my gaze to the floor.

"They're more than mere 'issues', Richard!" says Moncharmin. "They're insurmountable obstacles. What do you expect us to do, de Chagny? Replace the act three ballet with a vaudeville interlude? Do you wish for me to cheapen our great institution with a freak act?"

The words are like blows. My instinct is to cringe, but somehow I manage to draw myself up to my full height.

"Monsieur, I would be grateful if you would not talk about me in that insulting manner," I say, surprising myself. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"But a man in a mask must have something to hide," says Moncharmin, who has gone rather pale at my challenging tone.

"Monsieur Carriere was injured in a fire," says Philippe, before I can reply. "He was singing at a theatre in London when a backcloth went up in flames. It was a terrible tragedy. And now he's trying to rebuild his career. I am surprised you haven't heard of Monsieur Carriere, Moncharmin. A rising star at Covent Garden? You do pretend to know an awful lot about music. As do you, Monsieur Richard."

I stare at Philippe, wondering what on earth has possessed him to make up such an absurd story about me. I feel rather angry. Is the truth so shameful? My disfigurement is the result of no fire, and he knows that perfectly well.

Whatever the reason behind Philippe's lies, they seem to have worked. The managers, especially Monsieur Richard, look instantly apologetic, and rather horrified, as if Philippe has caught them out.

"I am so sorry, Monsieur Carriere," says Moncharmin. "I hope you'll forgive my appalling manners. I had no idea…"

"_I_ did," says Richard, not to be outdone. "In fact, I believe I _have _heard of you. Yes, I believe I read something in the papers. Covent Garden, you say? A fine opera house, Covent Garden…"

"So," says Philippe, smiling broadly. "Will you grant my friend here a formal audition?"

"Certainly, certainly," says Richard. "Of course, it will be difficult, but we will most certainly consider…er…"

"Our position!" says Moncharmin, helping his floundering partner. "Yes. We will consider our position in regards to this matter."

Philippe smiles broadly. "Good. Perhaps you could give Monsieur Carriere your card, gentlemen?"

"Our card," says Richard. "Of course." He reaches into his coat pocket and hands me a small white oblong. "Call on us at the Opera House next week, Monsieur Carriere. We will see what we can do."

They both shake my hand again and hurry towards the refreshment table. Philippe de Chagny follows them.

I remain standing where I am, alone, staring at the little piece of card in my hands. I can hardly believe what has just happened.

Something taps me on the shoulder. I give a start and whirl around. Mademoiselle Giry is grinning at me.

"Well?" she says. "What happened?"

I shake my head in confusion.

"I'm not sure. The managers gave me their card. They've asked me to call on them at the Opera…"

Mademoiselle Giry gasps. And then, all of a sudden, she leaps forward and wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace which makes me stagger.

"Oh, Erik! Do you know what this means? It means they're going to offer you a job!"

I manage to disentangle myself from her arms. I stare at her, swaying slightly on my feet. "A job? You mean…singing?"

She laughs. "Of course!"

I feel light-headed. "But…singing? At the Opera House? For an audience?"

Antoinette claps her hands together. "Yes! Oh, Erik. Aren't you pleased?"

"Pleased?" For a moment, I'm not sure. This is all I've ever wanted, just to sing and be heard, but I have an odd feeling, the strangest sense that I'm here under false pretences.

But Antoinette is delighted. She can't stop smiling.

"You'll never have to go back to those places," she says, hugging me again. "Never."

And I remember the jeering, leering crowds, and the laughter. I remember the heat of the sun, and the people, so many people, crammed into the tent. And I remember the indifference of the clientele at the cabaret. I had thought that the cabaret would be different, but they only wanted to see my face. Just like all the others.

Shyly, I meet Antoinette Giry's eyes. And I smile.

Perhaps I am no longer a monster.


	14. A Warning from the Count

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing! A couple of you said that you enjoyed the glimpse into Erik's past. I'm glad you enjoyed it, because there'll probably be another past section slightly later in the story. But for now, we're back to the present. I hope you enjoy, and thanks again for reading!

**Chapter Fourteen: A Warning from the Count**

Christine felt light-headed. She had only consumed one glass of wine before concluding that this was quite enough for her. She was weary from the events of the day, but Raoul's company and talk of the old times had at least lifted her spirits. She was pleased that he had chosen the familiar surroundings of the Café de l'Opera, rather than a stuffier, more expensive establishment. They had ordered ratatouille and red wine and a delicious lemon sorbet for dessert, and despite everything, Christine found herself enjoying the meal and laughing a great deal.

As the evening progressed, the conversation had moved from their days at Perros Guirec to other matters, and Raoul was now talking enthusiastically about ships and all things nautical, and his plans to sail around the world.

"I'm bored with Paris," he sighed. "I can't wait to travel again."

Christine looked at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically, and then returned to her sorbet. "I had no idea that it was possible to be bored with Paris."

"That's what my brother says. He thinks it's rather odd, I'm sure. I'm convinced he would stay here all the time if the estate didn't demand his attention. He doesn't understand my need for travel."

"He isn't fond of the sea?"

Raoul laughed. "Far from it. He gets seasick. And besides, he's in love with the Opera. Not the music, you understand. But the theatricality and the architecture and the social life of the Opera. And La Sorelli. Although he would never marry her."

Christine felt suddenly uncomfortable. She laid down her dessert fork.

"Don't you find that sad?" asked Raoul softly.

"Very."

"When I fall in love, I'm going to marry. Convention be damned."

He seemed to be waiting for her reply, and when she said nothing, he sighed and refilled his wine glass. Christine had no idea what to say to such a remark, and instead found herself listening to the music drifting from the front of the café. Someone was playing the piano with a limited amount of skill, and she thought suddenly of Erik. If he were here, he would be making some dry comment about the quality of music in Parisian bistros.

"What's the matter, Christine?"

Raoul's voice startled her from her reverie, and she found that the viscount was gazing at her with an expression of concern on his handsome face.

"Nothing. I'm quite all right."

"You're crying."

She had not realised it, but Raoul was correct. She dropped her gaze to the table, suddenly unable to look at him, but a moment later she found that he was waving a white handkerchief in her face. She gave a strained laugh and took it, dabbing her eyes.

"Thank you."

"I apologise," the viscount said. "I've been talking about myself for too long. What is it, Christine? It's Carriere, isn't it? You mustn't let him upset you."

"Yes," Christine sniffed. "It is Monsieur Carriere, but not in the way you think. It's ridiculous, but…" she paused, and shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. I've spoiled the evening."

"Nonsense, Lotte." He reached for her hand across the tablecloth. "You don't have to go to England, you know. If Philippe won't speak to Monsieur Carriere, I'll talk to him myself."

"It's not about England. Not really." She breathed deeply, wondering if she should confide such a thing in Raoul. "Do you remember your birthday gala, when you came to see me, and Erik interrupted us?"

Raoul winced. "I'm hardly likely to forget it."

"He told me he loved me."

The viscount was silent for a long time. Christine, awaiting a response, began to feel nervous.

"Raoul?"

"Do you love him back?" His tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

Christine played anxiously with her fork. "He's never far from my thoughts. Things…little things, like the music playing in the next room…they remind me of him. I catch myself wondering what he would think. But it's so difficult. He's convinced himself that he's unacceptable, that he'll find rejection wherever he goes." She sighed. "Sometimes I think I just pity him, but then he'll say something or do something which makes me question my feelings. Perhaps I do love him, but I'm afraid, because he's so different from anyone else I've ever met."

The words escaped from her in a rush, and it was a relief to finally share her confusion with another person. She looked at Raoul gratefully, but saw that he had gone quite pale. He rose to his feet abruptly.

"Raoul? What is it?"

The viscount turned away from her. "I think I should escort you home. It's getting late."

"I'm sorry. I _have_ spoiled things."

"Not at all." He smiled weakly. "I'll fetch our cloaks."

Shortly afterwards, they walked beneath the green and white striped awning of the café and out onto the Place de l'Opera, together but saying nothing. Occasionally Christine would glance at Raoul, but the young man seemed deeply subdued, his mouth pressed into a fine, hard line. Every now and then she heard him sigh.

She tried to find something to say to him, but they reached her home far too soon.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said again, as they paused on her doorstep.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Lotte." He took her hand. "But I think you should speak to Monsieur Carriere. He is clearly very dear to you."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

"Perhaps I will see you at the Opera," he said. And then, with the slightest of bows, he turned away.

She watched him leave. The satin of his tall hat gleamed in the lamplight. He was dressed like the elegant aristocrat whom he was, and yet she could not help but notice the sad stoop of his shoulders.

The next morning, Christine headed to the Opera House. She had hardly slept the previous night; her thoughts kept returning to her conversation with Raoul, and his advice that she should speak to Erik.

She had decided to act upon Raoul's advice, but even now, as she neared the stage door, she still had no idea what she was going to say. What if he simply dismissed her again?

She knew her best chance of success lay in speaking to him alone in his office, without the distractions provided by the rest of the opera company.

In truth, she had no idea whether she was still welcome at the Opera House. There were no rehearsals to attend, and she had no real excuse for being here. She was afraid that Jean-Claude, the stage doorman, would stop her. Much to her relief he merely nodded at her in greeting, as he did every morning, and smiled at her in a wistful way. She wondered if he had heard about her predicament.

In fact, her progress to Erik's office went unhindered by anyone. The corridors were empty and eerily quiet. Even Madame Giry, who was always in attendance early, was absent. Christine shuddered involuntarily, and then wondered why.

Reaching Erik's office, she raised her hand to knock, and then hesitated.

She had heard a voice from within. A raised, angry voice, whose words she could not quite make out.

And then Erik's voice: "Will you please calm down, Monsieur le Comte?"

So it was Count Philippe in there. Christine was not usually given to eavesdropping. But her need to speak to Erik, coupled with a natural curiosity, caused her to move an inch closer to the door.

"How dare you speak to me that way," Count Philippe was saying. "How can you treat me like this, after all I've done for you?"

There was a long, tense pause, and then Erik spoke again.

"I am grateful for your help and patronage. But I'm the artistic director, and I must make the final decision, however difficult."

"Artistic director?" Philippe was bellowing in a distinctly un-aristocratic fashion. "You would never have become anything of the sort if it wasn't for me! You would never have set foot inside the Opera House!"

"That is a rather arrogant assumption, Monsieur le Comte." Erik's voice was low and dangerous, almost a growl.

"If it wasn't for me, you would still be at the cabarets," snapped Philippe. "But…oh, wait! I found you a place at the cabarets, too, didn't I? If it wasn't for me, you would still be performing in the sideshows."

Christine tried to stifle a gasp. And she was sure she heard Erik gasp as well. The sound was sharp and painful, as if he had been dealt a physical blow.

When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and strangled. "I think you should leave my theatre."

"Very well." The Count's reply was oddly calm. "But I promise you this, Erik. You can't hide behind that mask forever. One day, the whole company will know what you are. Then we'll see if they're willing to take instruction from a circus freak."

Christine was so appalled by Philippe's words that she barely heard the footsteps. She had just enough time to throw herself away from the door before the Count emerged from the office.

He stopped short when he saw her. His face was flushed, and his cold blue eyes regarded her sharply for a moment. Then, as if suddenly recalling social convention, he lifted his hat in greeting.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he said.

Christine could barely manage a nod before he turned away and marched down the corridor.

She waited until he was out of sight, and then opened the office door, realising too late that she had forgotten to knock.

Erik was seated at his desk, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were hunched, and he was visibly shaking. Taking a tentative step towards him, she heard him sigh.

"How much did you hear?" He did not look at her.

"Nothing." Reaching the desk, Christine slid into the chair opposite him. "Just some shouting."

Erik allowed his hands to fall onto the desktop. He opened his eyes and looked at her searchingly for a moment. Then he sighed again.

"Good."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Christine regarded the man before her and wondered at Count Philippe's words. She could barely believe they were true. Surely he must be lying? She could not believe that Erik, with all his power and sophistication, could ever have been what Count Philippe had suggested.

And yet…it made sense. Christine thought of what little she knew about sideshows, and shuddered. She imagined Erik baring his face before an audience, imagined the gasps and stares.

She knew, as she looked at the elegantly dressed figure behind the desk, that Erik would not have been happy in such a place. This anxious, self-conscious man would have been miserable.

Suddenly, she understood. She recalled that evening at the bistro, the beauty of his tenor voice stunning the entire company, and then the look of terror in his eyes as he had fled. What had he said to her in the alleyway?

"_Nobody wants to hear a gargoyle sing. And if they do, it's only out of curiosity. They only wish to see the gargoyle's ugly face, and think to themselves how strange it is, that such an ugly creature can sing so well."_

Was this what Erik had meant? Had he spent the years before his arrival at the Opera singing, unmasked, before an unsympathetic crowd?

As she thought of Erik suffering in such a way, the painful ache inside her chest was almost physical. And once again she wondered: was this love, or compassion? She wiped her eyes with a hand, and hoped that he had not seen her tears.

Erik was staring at her suspiciously.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

She shook her head. "No reason. I just…oh, Erik. I'm so sorry."

She was not entirely sure what she was apologising for. She could only think of Philippe's threat, and she felt a sudden urge to protect Erik from the Count's cruel words.

On impulse, she reached across the table and took one of his large, pale hands in her own. He stared at their joined hands in puzzlement, but did not pull away.

"Christine," he said, after a moment. "Anything that you might have heard the Count say…it's not true. He's bitter because I've cancelled Il Muto."

"I know." She smiled to give him courage, even though she could tell that he was lying.

She held his hand for a long time, until a slight smile appeared on his lips and a light returned to his dull eyes. Finally, he pulled his hand from her grasp and rose to his feet.

"I want to apologise for my behaviour yesterday," he said, inclining his head away from her slightly in apparent embarrassment. "I was…scared."

She managed a grin. "Scared of me? You know, Erik, I'm starting to think that all these big scary opera house director stories are just a front."

He looked ashamed, but then realised she was teasing him, and tried to smile.

"I hope you understand," he said. "When people have seen my face in the past, there have been those who have reacted to me in really quite hurtful ways."

The images of a sideshow flashed across Christine's mind. She shuddered, but nodded, and waited for him to continue.

"But Madame Giry says that I should trust you. And I trust her judgment. But Christine…" he paused, and looked at her sadly. "Despite appearances, I'm actually quite…how do I put this? I don't have the thickest of skins…"

"Really?" Christine raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."

"I hope that we can continue to work together," he said. "And I hope that you'll forgive me, and…stay."

Christine did not hesitate. "Of course I'll stay."

He smiled. A real, genuine, warm smile.

"Thank you. But if you do wish to travel to London…"

"Thank you, Erik. But I would much rather remain here."

He seemed to crumple with relief. "I'm so glad. But do not fear: you will not lose Faust. We now have a gap in the programme which we need to fill urgently, and I believe Faust will be perfect. And then…well, I have exciting plans."

And Erik clapped his hands together in a manner which was almost gleeful. He laughed, but there was an odd, slightly hysterical edge to his laughter. Christine stared at him. She thought he seemed far too cheerful for a man who had just been insulted and threatened. She wondered how much of his enthusiasm was feigned.

"What plans, Erik?" she asked gently.

"Ah, they can wait. We have much to discuss first."

Then, without warning, he gathered up his hat and cloak and left the office.

He obviously expected her to follow him, so she did. They walked together down the backstage corridors, until they reached the auditorium, where the company of the Paris Opera House awaited them.


	15. I have written you an Opera

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers! I'm so glad you're still enjoying this; your comments mean a great deal to me. I'm sorry there has been another gap between updates, but I'm hoping to get the next chapter up fairly quickly, as it will run directly on from this chapter.

You'll notice that this chapter takes us a couple of months forward in time, which I hope works. I view this, with the musical's timeline in mind, as the beginning of Act Two (but don't worry…it won't take me another two years to finish!)

I hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Fifteen: I've written you an Opera**

1.

Erik glared at the sheet of manuscript paper. It was covered in scrawled music notes that danced, mockingly, before his eyes. Seizing his quill pen, he drew an angry black line across the entire page, and then tore it into tiny pieces for good measure.

Sighing tiredly, he massaged his aching temples and wondered why this had ever seemed like a good idea. Reaching inside his desk drawer, he placed a fresh sheet of paper on the music stand and waited for something, anything, to inspire him. He strained his ears in search of the sounds of the street, but the office windows were of thick glass and all he could hear was the occasional rumble of a carriage on the cobblestones. He pressed a few keys experimentally, in imitation, but it was no good. Something was definitely wrong.

Behind him there was a click as the door opened. Erik knew who the visitor was, so he did not bother to turn around. Instead he kept his gaze schooled to the keys of the piano.

More sounds behind him. The shuffle of paper. A delicious smell, like freshly baked bread.

"Erik?"

He winced. Any minute, she was going to see the blank sheet of paper, and know that he had written exactly nothing. Three hours of work with nothing to show for it save a floor covered with discarded paper. She would surely laugh at him.

He felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He did not flinch – he was beyond flinching now – but instead gave a weary sigh.

"Good morning, Christine."

He heard her soft chuckle. "You could endeavour to sound a little more enthusiastic," she said. "And besides, it's afternoon."

"What?" Erik almost knocked the piano stool over in his haste to get up. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past two."

"And I'm supposed to be addressing the patrons …"

"At three." She was still grinning, and the expression would have infuriated Erik if he didn't find it so utterly enchanting. "You've been in here for seven hours, Erik."

"But this is terrible. The Undersecretary of Fine Arts is coming too. And it isn't even finished. What am I going to do?"

Christine watched in barely concealed amusement as Erik dashed around the office, gathering his cloak and hat and stuffing sheets of music into his leather portfolio. He ran to the cupboard and flung open the door, adjusting the angle of his hat in front of the mirror. Christine sighed. It saddened her that the mirror was still kept out of sight.

"This damned ridiculous hat," he growled, tugging aggressively at the brim.

"Erik?"

His head appeared from behind the cupboard door. "What? What is it?"

"Come over here."

With an impatient 'humph' he stalked across the room and stood in front of her, tapping his foot against the carpet. She held out a bundle wrapped in brown paper.

He eyed her suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Take it and see."

Snatching the package from her hands, he unrolled the paper and peered at the contents. His face softened into a smile.

"Chocolate croissants." He sighed. "How did you know?"

She giggled. "I've seen you smuggling them past Madame Giry on many an occasion. You wait until she's out of the office before you eat them, I notice."

He pretended to glare at her. "You have a way of finding out my secrets, don't you?"

She nodded, but did not reply. And suddenly, she found she had to turn away from him. She could discover his secrets – if they could be called secrets – by observation. She knew about his fondness for croissants and very strong black coffee. She knew that he pretended to loathe sentimental music, or anything romantic, while secretly he adored a happy ending. She knew he kept a book of fairy tales on the shelves in his office, hidden behind a hefty tome on music theory. He liked fine wine, and fine clothing. He pretended to love the dark, but actually he adored the sunlight.

In two months, she had learned so many small yet important things about him.

And yet still he never actually _told_ her anything.

"What's the matter?" He was regarding her with a quizzical expression, a piece of croissant halfway to his lips.

"Nothing."

She had never found the courage to ask him about the overheard confrontation with Count Philippe. It had been almost two months since the Count's departure from the Opera, but his words still troubled her. Although Erik had grown more relaxed in her company, he was still very reticent about certain things, and his history with the Count was one of them. He never talked about his past, even though she had attempted to broach the subject on several occasions.

They had spent a fair amount of time together over the last two months. Erik had resumed his role as her music teacher during the rehearsal period for _Faust_, tutoring her between rehearsals. Generally their friendship was a formal affair – despite his insistence to the contrary, she was certain that he still did not entirely trust her – but at least he no longer shied away from her when she took his hand, which was something. And he would talk endlessly about music, even though he seemed unable to talk about himself.

Earning his trust was a struggle, and she wondered if she would ever really know him.

He wrapped up the remainder of the croissant and placed it on the desk.

"I quite understand if you're nervous," he said softly. "I'm nervous too. Do you know this is the first time in more than twenty years that any of my music has been performed?"

The confession startled her; perhaps this would be the opportunity she had been waiting for.

"What happened the last time?"

He shrugged. "Oh, nothing. Which is sort of the point. I was auditioning for the Conservatoire."

Christine's eyes widened. "The Paris Conservatoire? Where I studied?"

He sighed and nodded, drumming his fingers absently against the lid of his piano.

"And did you get in?" She prompted.

He gave a snort. "What do you think? They told me my music was uninspired…but really I think they turned down my application because I refused to take my mask off."

A memory suddenly came to Christine. She remembered her audition for the Opera, nearly six months ago now, when she had performed that sweet, perfect love song. And she heard Erik's voice in her mind: _That music is childish and uninspired. I never want to hear it again._

She walked slowly to the piano and placed her hand gently upon his, forcing him to stop the anxious drumming of his fingers.

"That song was yours, wasn't it?"

He blinked in confusion. "What song?"

"My audition song. For the Opera."

"Oh." His gaze dropped to her hand. "Yes."

"I didn't think it was uninspired at all. I thought it was quite lovely."

The ghost of a smile twisted his lips, then vanished just as quickly. "Thank you. It was just a piece of youthful drivel. But thank you."

Christine knew better than to try and convince him otherwise. She had heard the music which Erik was now writing, so it was little wonder that he viewed his romantic ballads as 'drivel' in comparison.

"What did you do when you couldn't go to the Conservatoire?" she asked.

"I…" he hesitated. He was looking at her intently, as if he wished to share something with her. Christine held her breath and waited. But then Erik withdrew his hand with a sigh.

"I found work where I could." This was his only admittance to a further life before the Opera. Christine felt a pang of disappointment as she watched him collect the portfolio from beside the piano. He forced a smile. "I've allowed you to distract me with your croissants and conversation. And now we're even later than we were before. We should hurry."

Brushing several flakes of croissant from the lapels of his coat, he made for the door.

"Erik?"

He paused. "Yes?"

"You shouldn't be ashamed of your music, you know. You'll impress them today. I know it."

"Impress them?" He blinked, and his mouth turned upwards in a smile. "I hope to do more than impress them, Christine. Far, far more."

2.

The Grand Foyer was perhaps the most resplendent room in the theatre. With its two rows of gilded chandeliers, full-length mirrors, columns bedecked with the building's signature lyre motif, and ceiling of Baroque murals, it was quite obviously a room which had been built to impress.

It wasn't Christine's favourite; she preferred the more understated elegance of the smaller foyers. But Erik had chosen this room on purpose, to showcase the Opera's wealth and power, and – he suggested mockingly– to distract the invited audience from any deficiencies currently present in his music.

Today the room was full of people. Some of them – the Undersecretary of Fine Arts and his fellow dignitaries, along with around fifty patrons – were seated upon plush red velvet chairs. An area at the back of the room was reserved for the press, for whom Erik had not provided chairs, perhaps as subtle revenge for certain printed injustices. The audience faced a makeshift stage, upon which there was a grand piano, a podium, and four members of the orchestra, called upon for the day to form a string quartet. Reyer, the conductor, paced frantically from one end of the stage to the other, running one hand through his hair in a harassed manner. The background to all of this was a large billboard, currently swathed in a sheet of golden fabric from the wardrobe department.

Christine saw all this from her chair at the side of the stage, where she was sitting with a group of specially selected company members. Meg was seated in front of her, practically bouncing up and down in her chair. Christine feared that she would leap up and launch into a series of pirouettes at any moment, simply to release some of her limitless energy.

"I've never been to a press conference before," Meg exclaimed. "Oh, Christine! Isn't it exciting?"

Christine nodded, but she wasn't so sure. The whole event seemed nerve-wracking and slightly forced to her, not to mention a little out of keeping with Erik's character. Not for the first time since he had described his idea for a launch, she wondered exactly what he hoped to gain from publicising his new opera before it even began rehearsals.

Madame Giry stepped onto the temporary stage. At first no one seemed to notice; the representatives from the press were too busy gossiping amongst themselves and consulting their notebooks. The ballet mistress coughed loudly, and, when this failed, she was obliged to strike her cane against the wooden floor of the platform. Meg stifled a giggle, and the audience turned its attention, somewhat resentfully, towards the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the Opera Garnier. Today, our new season will be announced by the artistic director of the Paris Opera, Monsieur Erik Carriere."

A hush fell over the assembled audience. The press, who had been looking slightly bored, suddenly stood up straighter, peering around the heads of those in front to acquire a better view. Erik had never announced a new season personally. This task usually fell to Monsieur Leferve, the business manager, who would go and talk to the press and government officials on an individual basis. But today Leferve was sitting with the rest of the company, staring rather resentfully at his clasped hands.

Erik emerged from behind the covered billboard and strode smartly onto the stage. He was dressed in an elegantly tailored suit. At the very last moment, he had exchanged his customary fedora for a top hat. Christine thought the hat did not quite suit him - it seemed to throw his figure off-balance - but she had the impression that he was trying to look even taller than he actually was. This course of action was not remotely necessary; Erik was quite sufficiently intimidating without a hat of any sort. Christine found herself impressed that a man who could appear so shy could so easily command attention upon a stage. She felt a twinge of regret, on his behalf, that he had never become a professional singer.

Erik held up a hand for silence, but the audience was already quiet. Christine realised that this was likely the first time that most of them had seen the legendary Opera director in person.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you very much for joining us today. I appreciate this meeting is a slight departure from convention, but I felt that it was necessary." He paused, and allowed himself a glance around the room. "I know that many of you will have attended performances here in the past, and I would like to thank you for your continued support."

This was greeted with a polite round of applause. Erik cleared his throat, and Christine realised that, despite appearances, he was still nervous.

"I have now been director for five years, and I am very proud of the Paris Opera and all that the company has achieved in that time," he paused. "However, I feel there are changes which must be made."

This was greeted by various mutterings from the press and members of the company, together with a few raised eyebrows from the patrons and government officials.

"My first proposal is quite simple. Beginning this season, I intend to dim the house lights during all performances. I feel that the lighting is an unnecessary distraction from the presentation on stage. It is quite unacceptable when singers are trying to work and the patrons in the boxes are waving to each other across the auditorium."

This gained a few groans and murmurs of disgust from the wealthier patrons, who liked nothing better than watching each other during the performances.

"Secondly, I intend to dispense with the outmoded model of scenic design, which involves the overuse of painted backdrops. There are scenic designers at work in France today who are championing the use of solid forms and structures. I would like to be the first major national theatre to make use of these innovations. There will be no more painted trees with painted shadows. We must learn to use our stage flexibly and dynamically, and employ the same principles to our set designs that an architect would use when designing buildings."

This was met with a stony, rather bored silence. Christine found herself wondering if anyone actually knew what Erik was talking about.

"I hope you will find these changes agreeable," Erik continued. "But there is something else, something for which I will have to beg your indulgence. For five years now, I have strived to bring the best of contemporary opera to my audiences. Each year, I have staged one opera by an unknown composer. This season, I intend to depart slightly from that tradition. This year, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to stage my own opera, in collaboration with Hector Chalumeau, who has agreed to act as my librettist.'

There were mutterings amongst the crowd.

"Now," Erik resumed, "in case you're thinking that I am taking a huge risk, that I have no reputation as a composer, and this is merely a vanity project, I would like to reassure you that the production already has the support of an influential patron." Erik walked towards the covered billboard. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you: _Don Juan Triumphant."_

Then, with the theatrical flair of a magician, he pulled aside the gold curtain to reveal a poster. Christine strained to see the details. There was a painting of a woman in Spanish dress, holding a fan aloft, and a man in a black robe. They appeared to be wading through flames. There were a number of gasps from the audience, and the reporters began to scribble frantically in their notebooks.

"Now I will welcome any questions you may have," said Erik.

The crowd erupted in a flurry of noise and activity. Most people in the room raised a hand, and Erik pointed to a young man at the back of the room. "Yes. You."

"Monsieur Carriere, your critics say you have no formal training in this business, and are therefore unsuitable for the post of artistic director. What is your response to this?"

Erik regarded the man coldly.

"The critics do not know anything about my background. The truth is I do have some formal training. As a young man I studied singing and composition."

Clearly nervous, the man shrank back slightly, almost colliding with the journalist behind him. "I've found no record of your time at any of the French conservatoires…"

"That is because I did not train at a conservatoire. There are many other places in which a composer can learn his craft. Next question, please."

One of the government officials raised his hand.

"I should like to know the identity of the patron who has agreed to support this…" he paused, and stared at the poster. "_Project_."

"He wishes to remain anonymous for the time being, but I hope he will reveal his identity on opening night."

"Is it the Comte de Chagny?" This from another member of the press.

"No," said Erik, with a frown. "It is not."

"Is it true that you've broken off all association with the Comte de Chagny, despite the fact that he secured your position at the Opera in the first place?"

"The Comte de Chagny did no such thing," said Erik. "And we had no choice but to go our separate ways. His vision for the future of the Opera was very different from my own."

"Given that you also wish to use the Opera to further your musical career, I would suggest that it is not so different." This came from a portly, middle-aged gentleman in the front row of patrons. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, glittering behind a pince-nez.

Christine saw Erik's hands clench into fists, saw his arms start to tremble. But despite his repressed nerves he managed to keep his composure. He fixed the man with a powerful stare.

"I would suggest that you listen to my work before making comparisons with that of the Comte de Chagny," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

The man leapt to his feet. "Monsieur Carriere, I have been following your career with interest for many years. You have my respect for taking artistic risks, and yet I fear this is a step too far. The Opera does not belong to you, sir. It should not be a platform for your amateur experiments…"

Amateur. Christine cringed at the word. She looked at Erik and saw that the unmasked side of his face was a picture of barely controlled rage. And yet, somehow, he kept his composure.

"It is experimentation, sir, which prevents our great artistic institutions from turning into museums."

"And it is the ignorance of people like you, _sir_, which is corrupting great music and turning our great Opera House into a laughing stock. Good day to you."

The gentleman kicked his chair to one side and marched out of the Foyer. The rest of the audience stared after him. Meg turned to look at Christine, her eyes wide with fascination.

"I had no idea that anyone cared so much," she whispered in a voice filled with wonder. "It's only opera."

Christine hoped fervently that she would never say such a thing to Erik. He was gripping the sides of the podium with tense fingers, as if awaiting some further reaction from the crowd.

"I think that's enough questions, Monsieur Carriere," said the Undersecretary of Fine Arts, mildly. "I do not wish for this to descend into a riot. There are government officials present."

Erik nodded. "Thank you. I quite agree. Now, if you would indulge me, I wish to play you some selections from the score."

He gestured towards Reyer, who nodded.

There was a moment of silence, as the audience seemed to hold its collective breath. Christine waited for the first crashing chords. She locked eyes with Erik, who, she realised, was actually smiling.

Reyer raised his baton. And the music which filled the Grand Foyer that afternoon was like nothing Paris had ever heard before.


	16. A Prima Donna's Tantrum

Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews! I'm sorry for the very long delay in posting. I hope you're all still reading, and you enjoy this next chapter.

**Chapter Sixteen: A Prima Donna's Tantrum**

1.

Christine jumped as the first chords of Erik's _Don Juan_ crashed through the Grand Foyer. She knew that the opening was cacophonous, but it was the first time she had heard the music on anything other than Erik's piano. It seemed to her that the two violins, cello and double bass of the string quartet were engaged in some deadly battle for musical supremacy, and she heard several of the patrons groan.

Even Erik appeared shaken. He had closed his eyes, and he was gripping the edges of the podium with such force that his knuckles had turned white. He shuddered as the wild music somehow formed itself into one great mournful chord.

Some of the patrons were shouting in protest. Two of them leapt to their feet and headed for the doors. Another man made a great show of taking a small rectangle of card - presumably his season ticket - from his coat pocket and tearing it neatly into two pieces.

She looked again at Erik, but his eyes were still closed. Then his hands lifted from the podium into the air, and he began to move them in graceful, delicate arcs, conducting along with Reyer.

It was as if he was controlling a great storm, complete with thunder and a roaring sea. The music reached a crescendo. Christine saw the patrons cringe, as if expecting another great senseless cacophony. Meg discreetly lifted her hands towards her ears.

And then, quite suddenly, the dissonance resolved itself into melody. The music was indeed triumphant, as if an oppressive darkness had lifted and musical sunlight was spilling into the foyer. Erik opened his eyes, turned his head, and smiled at Christine in such a tender way that she very nearly blushed. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the music, endeavouring to hide the sudden wave of feeling that engulfed her.

When the piece ended, she opened her eyes to find that the remaining patrons were staring at Erik in awe. No one applauded.

Erik's expression was remarkably tranquil.

"Thank you for listening," he said. The calm tenor of his voice – so strangely at odds with his music - seemed to startle the audience out of their collective trance, and a smattering of confused applause spread itself around the Foyer.

The Undersecretary of Fine Arts rose to his feet and wiped his pale forehead with a handkerchief. Christine noticed that his hand was shaking.

"Thank you, Monsieur Carriere," he said, in a voice that trembled despite its authoritative tone. "That was most…illuminating."

"Do you consider it suitable?" Christine was not certain whether Erik's question was directed at the Undersecretary, or the audience in general.

The minister looked rather startled. "Worthy, perhaps. Challenging, undoubtedly. Suitable? I hope so. But that is not for me to decide." And for the first time, he smiled. "I propose we allow the Parisian audiences to decide."

Erik stared at the man for a moment, his expression confused. "So…you'll support us?"

The Undersecretary mounted the platform and addressed the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen. I believe we have heard something quite extraordinary here today. I venture to add that Monsieur Carriere has perhaps afforded us a glimpse into the future of opera. Possibly, this music has been written twenty years too soon. But I should be most interested to find out. Therefore, I would like to permit the Opera Garnier to stage _Don Juan Triumphant_ for one week, with the possibility of an extension if notices and reactions prove positive." He extended a hand towards Erik. "Congratulations, Monsieur Carriere."

Erik looked at the hand as if he had forgotten what to do with it. But then he seemed to gather himself, and enclosed the Undersecretary's hand within his own.

"Thank you, Monsieur," he said softly.

This time the applause was more enthusiastic, as if the official's endorsement had somehow given the audience permission to show their approval. Erik caught Christine's eye and smiled briefly, inviting a few glances in her direction from other members of the company. Feeling herself blush, she looked down at the floor.

"And who, may I ask, will play the leading role in this _Don Juan_?"

Christine's head shot up. The voice, chillingly familiar, had come from the far end of the Grand Foyer. A figure, resplendent in red velvet brocade and foxtails, had emerged from the small circular anteroom known as the Salon of the Sun. Christine wondered if she had been hiding in the little room throughout the presentation.

"Signora Guidicelli," said Erik, his fingers curling around the edge of the podium, where he had resumed his place. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Carlotta swept gracefully down the centre aisle, smiling pleasantly at the patrons and journalists as she passed. She halted at the foot of Erik's platform and tilted her head up at him, peacock feathers quivering on her fashionable hat.

"I have come to offer my services, Monsieur Carriere," she said. "I would consider it an honour to sing in this _Don Juan_."

There were whisperings among the patrons, and the sounds of scratching pencils from the journalists. Carlotta merely stood smiling, while Erik regarded her with a furrowed brow.

"This is most irregular, Mademoiselle," said the Undersecretary of Fine Arts, before Erik could speak. "If you would like to be a part of the company, I am sure you will have the opportunity to audition."

Carlotta glared at the minister. "Do you know who I am?" she asked, in a voice which indicated that she considered him beneath contempt.

The Undersecretary did not even blink. "Yes. You are Carlotta Guidicelli."

"The great Carlotta Guidicelli. That is correct." Then, turning to the audience, she threw her arms wide, as if preparing to deliver a dramatic aria. "This Don Juan is a sham. It is nothing but a showcase for that little baggage's talents."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Signora," said Erik, with a controlled calmness that only served to suggest how angry he really was.

"I'm talking about Miss Daae!" Carlotta whirled around and pointed a finger directly at Christine. "You have cast Miss Daae in the lead of this Don Juan! I would bet my life on it."

"You are mistaken," said Erik, glancing at Christine with an apologetic look on his face. "I have yet to hold auditions."

"Ah, but you mean to cast her," said Carlotta. "And I know why. The two of you are as thick as thieves. He has been teaching her. Secretly coaching her, in his office." She grinned at Erik. "And I'm willing to bet more besides…"

"How dare you!" Christine rose from her chair, cheeks blazing. "You evil woman! How dare you!"

Erik held up a hand. "Please, Miss Daae. Sit down. I'll deal with this…"

"Do you think I'm going to just stand by and allow her to insult both of us? I'm not a child, Erik."

Carlotta's mouth twisted in a smirk. "You see how she uses his first name? How adorable! I have heard rumours, Miss Daae, rumours that you turned down the attentions of a certain vicomte in favour of Monsieur Carriere. Why would you do such a thing, if not for fame and wealth?"

Whisper, went the patrons. Scribble, went the journalists.

"I think you should leave," said Erik, stepping down from the platform and towering over Carlotta with impressive dignity. But the diva would not be silenced.

"And as for you," she said, pointing a finger at Erik's chest. "I can't believe such an intelligent man would be fooled by one such as her. I don't know which of you is worse, her for using you to further her career, or you for falling for it."

"Monsieur Carriere, is this true?" The question came from the Undersecretary of Fine Arts, who had gone very red in the face. Christine could not tell whether he was embarrassed or angry.

Erik blinked. "Of course it isn't true. I have been tutoring Miss Daae because I believe that she has talent. But I haven't cast Don Juan and there has certainly been no impropriety between Miss Daae and I."

"But you admit that you tutored her."

"Yes. What is wrong with that? The discovery of new talent is part of my role."

The Undersecretary eyed Erik thoughtfully. "Monsieur Carriere, if Don Juan is to go ahead, I must insist that you bring in another party to cast the opera. I appreciate that it must be very difficult to remain unbiased when casting your own work, so I believe a deputy should be appointed to assist you in this matter."

Erik stared at him. "But I'm more than capable…"

"I'm sure you are. But such accusations of favouritism could be extraordinarily damaging to the reputation of the Opera."

"That's what I've been trying to say," said Carlotta. "Don't you see that I have the best interests of the Opera at heart?"

The Undersecretary glared at her. "And as for you…I think you should apologise to Monsieur Carriere and Mademoiselle Daae for your deplorable rudeness."

"I am sorry, Monsieur Carriere," said Carlotta. She smiled. "I will look forward to auditioning for you. It will be just like old times, no?"

Erik took a step towards her, his face contorted in a sneer. "Things bad at the Café Jacquin, are they?"

"You would know all about music halls, wouldn't you?" said Carlotta in a low voice. "_Singing Gargoyle_."

"_Leave_." Erik's word came out as a snarl. Carlotta looked momentarily intimidated, before straightening her shoulders and turning smartly on her heel. Before she left the Foyer, she lowered her mouth towards Christine's ear.

"I'm watching you," she whispered. "Little toad."

2.

Erik's dark figure dashed down the Grand Staircase, forcing Christine to run in order to keep up with him. Reaching the entrance foyer, he paused outside the Box Office, and fixed his gaze upon a stagehand who was innocently pasting a poster for _Don Juan Triumphant _onto a large billboard.

"You!" he said. "Stop that at once!"

The youth stared at him in bewilderment. "But Monsieur Carriere, you said that the posters should go up this afternoon, straight after the announcement…"

"I know what I said, boy! I've changed my mind." Erik stepped towards the stagehand and ripped the poster from the billboard.

Christine tried to catch his hand, but it was too late; the poster had been reduced to a tiny ball of paper in Erik's clenched fist.

"What are you doing?" she asked, staring at the startled stagehand and the empty billboard. "Have you lost your mind?"

Erik tossed the ball of paper over his shoulder. "I'm cancelling Don Juan. I am the composer, I should have the final say when it comes to the casting, and I will not let anyone ruin it, least of all that…that woman!"

"Don't be so ridiculous."

"Oh, so now I'm ridiculous? Well, yes, I feel ridiculous. I've been made to feel ridiculous. It's a long time since I've felt so humiliated, Christine. Oh, but of course, they must be right, because I'm just an amateur composer and an amateur manager and I can't be trusted to make the right decisions, oh, no…"

Without thinking, Christine grabbed hold of the lapels of his jacket and shook him. Erik was so startled by the gesture that he stopped talking and simply stared at her, his masked face cocked on one side.

"Erik. Calm. Down. Have you heard yourself?" She released his lapels and shook her head, looking up at him sadly. "Your work was praised. They didn't reject it. Most composers would consider today a triumph."

"But they don't even trust me to cast my own opera."

"I've never met a man who is so insistent upon dwelling on what he perceives as his own shortcomings. It's a good thing the opera isn't autobiographical. It would have to be called _Don Juan Despondent._" She hoped he would laugh, but he didn't. He merely looked down at the marble floor, an expression of shame crossing his face.

"What's the matter now?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, Christine. She insulted you. I'm sorry to place you in such a difficult position."

"It doesn't matter…"

Erik gave a bark of laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You do realise what she was suggesting? She was suggesting that we were somehow involved with each other…romantically."

"And is that such a terrible thing?" She reached towards his face and cupped his unmasked cheek with her hand. He backed away, looking at the stagehand, who was still staring at them. "Please stop pushing me away, Erik. I know what she was implying, and I was insulted, but it's not so far from the truth, is it? Just a few months ago you told me that you loved me."

"Yes. And look where that led us."

"But things are better now. Perhaps…" she turned away, feeling herself flush slightly. "Perhaps we could go out and celebrate."

The stagehand coughed. Erik turned and glared at him. "You must have work to do. Please do it."

The stagehand scurried away.

Erik turned his attention back to her, looking at her curiously. "You want to go out…with me?"

She smiled. "Is that so surprising?"

"But where would we go?"

"We could go to the bistro."

He shook his head. "Too many people from the Opera."

"Or perhaps…perhaps we could go for a walk in the park. We could have a picnic."

He quirked an eyebrow, and she was pleased to see him smile. "A picnic?"

"Why not? We could take cheese and bread and wine."

"And croissants."

She giggled. "And croissants."

His expression suddenly darkened. "You wouldn't be embarrassed? Sometimes my mask attracts unwanted attention."

"I would be honoured to be seen with you, Erik, and if anyone says anything unpleasant, I shall set Meg on them. She can be quite fierce when she puts her mind to it."

He looked at her searchingly for a moment, as if questioning his judgement. Finally, his shoulders relaxed, and his face softened into a smile.

"Very well. Give me half an hour. I'll bring the croissants."


	17. It was years ago

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, and welcome to what is possibly the quickest ever update from me in the history of eleven years on this site!

I hope you enjoy this chapter. I admit to borrowing rather heavily from the Charles Dance Phantom - Yeston/Kopit Phantom here. This is because, in my humble opinion, the picnic scene is amazing, and Erik and Christine should go on more picnics :). But there is a serious reason for my writing this chapter, so please bear with me. Enjoy!

**Chapter 17: It was years ago…**

Christine's simple confidence while walking the streets of Paris astounded Erik. He was accustomed to hurrying through the crowds while keeping his head inclined downwards, in the hope that shadows would conceal his mask. But Christine strolled along quite happily, occasionally smiling and nodding at passers-by.

At a loss to imitate her social charms, Erik followed along in her wake, carrying the picnic basket and deeply regretting his choice of hat. The straw boater had seemed like a good idea at the time, as he had seen other gentlemen wearing them while walking in the park, but now it just seemed a whimsical inconvenience: the brim was not wide enough to cast a shadow over the mask.

They reached the Tuileries, and Erik tensed at the sight of the beautiful formal garden. The weather was warm and bright, and the park was crowded with couples lounging on the grass, or seated on the benches at either side of the central avenue.

"Oh, Erik, this is perfect!" Christine had found a sunny spot beside an ornamental fountain. There were several couples resting nearby, and two children were splashing each other with handfuls of water. They glanced up at Erik curiously, and his hand tightened nervously around the handle of the picnic basket.

"I don't think this is such a good idea," he began, but Christine seized his hand and led him around the fountain and into a shady avenue half-concealed by rose bushes. The scent of the pink roses was heady, intoxicating. He breathed it in and tried to relax.

"Perfect," he said, with a smile. Opening the picnic basket, he took out a large woollen rug and spread it on the lawn so it was half in shadow and half in the sun. Christine sat in the light. Instinctively, he remained in the shadows, and began to unpack the basket further.

As he placed the bread and cheese on plates, he was aware of Christine watching him and smiling.

"What's the matter?"

She lowered her eyes. "Nothing. It's just that I've never seen you in daylight before. Not properly. Not outside."

He shrugged and poured wine into her glass. "I've never felt particularly comfortable."

"But you're comfortable here, aren't you?"

He glanced around. "Yes. Well, that fountain is an architectural monstrosity, but the gardens are pleasant enough."

Christine tucked into her bread. She continued to regard him as she ate, and Erik became aware that something was expected of him.

"This is nice, isn't it?" she said, after a moment.

Ah. That was it. He was expected to make conversation.

"Yes," he said. "Very nice."

Christine nodded, and continued to eat her sandwich. Aware that eating would excuse him from talking, Erik eyed the cheese, but his stomach was turning somersaults. He went to take a sip from his glass, only to find that it was already empty. As discreetly as possible, he poured himself another, and watched Christine. She smiled between mouthfuls of food.

Erik had never found himself in this sort of situation before, but he was aware there were rules one had to follow. He knew that one of these rules was to ask the other person about themselves. There were so many things he wanted to know about Christine, but each question seemed either too personal, or too trivial.

What did people talk about when they were courting? He supposed this was a courtship now, however accidental. The Opera no longer seemed a sufficient topic of conversation.

"The weather has been good," he stated, rather more grandly than he had intended.

Christine nodded. "It's lovely, isn't it?"

A question! He must decide upon a question.

"Do you like…" Do you like what? Come on, Erik! "Do you like…poetry?"

Christine stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Some poetry. Why do you ask?"

Why indeed? Erik reached again for his wine glass, his hand shaking. And then Christine's own hand came forward, her fingers gently brushing his wrist.

"You don't need to be nervous, you know," she said. "We can just sit here, or we can talk about the Opera."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want you to think you have to entertain me, or impress me," she lowered her voice. "I'm happy just being with you."

He stared down at her hand, her delicate fingers against his own pale, elongated claws.

"What's this, anyway?" she said suddenly, and he looked up to see that she was staring at his hand curiously.

"What?"

"This." She stroked the ring on the little finger of his right hand. It was a silver band set with an oval of black onyx.

He smiled. "I think it's what's known as a ring, Christine."

"I know that." She glared at him, but her eyes were playful. "I've often noticed it while you've been playing the piano."

Once again, he found it very difficult to keep looking at her. "It's just a ring. Many people wear them."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was just curious. It's a very beautiful ring."

He realised he had spoken harshly, and sighed. "Thank you. To be perfectly honest, it was a gift. Of a sort."

"Who from?"

"That's the oddest thing. I don't know. When I was younger, just before I went to work at the Opera, someone sent it to me with a note. There was no name. But the note said…" He paused, wondering if she would laugh. "The note said I could achieve anything, if I put my mind to it, and the ring, which rightfully belonged to me, was to remind me of that fact." He chuckled. "A piece of sentimental nonsense, I suppose. I meant to throw it away, but I grew attached to it, and I've worn it ever since."

"Who do you think sent it?"

He shrugged. "I have my suspicion. The only person I can really think would do such a thing is Antoinette. She was in the corps de ballet at the time and it seems like the sort of thing a sentimental little ballet rat would do."

Christine grinned. "It's certainly the sort of thing Meg would do. Have you never asked Madame Giry about it?"

"To be completely honest, I've never dared. Imagine how awkward it would be if I was wrong. Imagine Antoinette's face."

Christine laughed. "It would be fun to solve the mystery."

"Fun? In what way?"

"Well, aren't you even a tiny bit curious as to where it came from?"

"Not really. Delving into the past can be a dangerous thing, Christine. Don't think I haven't considered it. I just prefer to believe that it was someone who genuinely cared for me, and not some kind of joke."

Her laughter died, and she looked suddenly very sad. "Why should it be a joke? I think it's far more likely to be genuine."

"You always look for the good in people, don't you?" He smiled fondly. "It can be quite tiring at times. But you must know that the world has taught me to look at things rather differently."

She was silent, a blush touching her cheeks. Then, still without a word, she rose to her feet and dusted the breadcrumbs and blades of grass from her skirt.

"What's the matter?" He asked, bewildered by the gesture. "Have I offended you?"

"Yes, actually, you have, a little." She gathered her red shawl around her shoulders. "I'm getting rather tired of you being so patronising."

He stood up, placing his hands on his hips. "I'm not patronising. I'm merely stating a fact."

"And how would you know?" Her eyes were almost blazing. "Sometimes, Erik, you speak to me as if I'm little more than a child, but I did have a life before I arrived at the Opera. And I've known hardship, just like you. When I was very young, my mother died, and my father lost everything, including our house. In an attempt to get by, we travelled the country together. He played the violin, and I sang. My father was a very great violinist, but sometimes people would shoo us away, as if our music meant nothing, or as if we were common thieves." She passed a hand over her eyes, and Erik had the unnerving feeling that she was about to cry. "But for every person who rejected us, there was always someone else who was kind, who paid my father to play at a wedding or village fete, who gave us food, or a place to stay. So just because you choose to view the whole of humanity with cynical eyes, it doesn't mean that I have to, and it certainly doesn't mean that you're correct in your assessment."

She stopped, panting, her hands clenched into loose fists by her sides. Erik could only stare at her.

"I'm so sorry, Christine," he said softly. "I didn't know."

"You didn't know, because you never asked me," she said. "For someone who professes to care about me, you show very little interest in who I am beyond my ability to sing your operas."

He shook his head. "That's not true. Please don't be angry with me, Christine. I've…" he paused, his face suddenly feeling very hot beneath the mask. "I've never done this before."

She looked at him quizzically, the anger dissipating slightly. "What are you talking about?"

"Do I really have to say it? Isn't it obvious? Can't you see what a blundering fool I am? I've never courted a woman, Christine. I've never taken a woman to a restaurant, to the theatre, or on a picnic before." He sighed. "The truth is I'm frightened. I don't know how to ask you about yourself, because I'm afraid of prying and being rude. So if I've failed some sort of test, I'm very sorry. I meant no offence."

They were now standing several feet apart, the picnic rug and basket between them. Erik lifted a hand to his cheek and realised that it was wet with tears. He waited for her judgement, waited for her to gather her things and walk away. But instead she sank down upon the rug, and patted the material beside her. He hesitated for a moment, and then sat down himself.

"You must think me pathetic," he muttered.

"Not at all." She smiled at him wistfully. "I only wish you'd told me."

"I thought it was obvious. What sort of lady would wish to sit across from a face like mine at the dinner table?" He paused, and saw that she had raised her eyebrows. "I'm sorry. You see what I mean? That came out all wrong."

"It's all right," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "I'm sorry I lost my temper. I only want you to know that I understand. My father should have been a renowned violinist, playing in the great concert halls of the world. But instead he did what he had to do in order to survive. And I know you did the same."

Feeling his chest constrict with fear, Erik pulled his hand away. "What do you mean?"

"I know about the sideshow." Her eyes were sympathetic, and it was suddenly painfully clear that she felt sorry for him.

"Oh God." He buried his face in his hands. Of course he had suspected that she had overheard his conversation with Philippe, and yet the fact that she had not mentioned it since had made him dare to hope that he was wrong.

"I heard Philippe threaten to tell the company the truth."

The fear was very real now, and he was trembling.

"I told you at the time. He was bitter about Il Muto. He was lying." He could not keep the note of desperation out of his voice.

"But it is true, isn't it? That's why you fled that night at the bistro. That's what you meant when you said people were only interested in seeing your face." The sympathy in her eyes was almost unbearable to look at, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. He did not want her to see the extent of his shame. "And I heard Carlotta call you a singing gargoyle."

Those two words, spoken for the second time in one day, were enough to make something inside him break. He found he no longer had the will to lie to her, to keep secrets.

"I was very young. I had no choice. There was nothing else I could do…"

"I know," she said, taking his hand again. "I understand. There's no reason to be ashamed."

"But I am." His body convulsed in a sob. "And if you had seen me, if you had been there, you would be ashamed, too. You certainly wouldn't wish to be seen with me now."

"I could never be ashamed of you," she said gently, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair under the brim of his straw hat. "I've told you a little about my life, Erik. Would you please tell me about yours? Then there'll be no more secrets, and I can prove to you that I'm not ashamed."

He sighed, and looked up at her. Tears were sliding down his cheeks, but he tried to smile. "Very well." He took a deep breath. "It was years ago…"


	18. The Singing Gargoyle

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who has so far read, reviewed, favourited and followed this story. I really appreciate your support!

Now we take up Erik's point of view. For his story, I would like to acknowledge a few sources. The name of his music tutor is taken from Susan Kay's novel 'Phantom', and Fleck (the name, not the character) is from 'Love Never Dies.'

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you enjoy the first part of Erik's story.

**Chapter 18: The Singing Gargoyle**

_Erik_

I was born in Paris. My mother was an actress. Quite a successful actress, in her day, although my arrival rather put an end to her career. When I was a child, she worked in the costume department at the old opera house. She would bring home costumes to repair, and I remember being fascinated by this strange clothing which had the power to transform an ordinary person into a prince, or a knight, or even a monster.

I never knew my father. All I know is that every month an envelope would arrive addressed to my mother, and there would be money in it. And my mother would always look very sad when this money arrived, although I did not dare ask her why. Once, when I was about five, I asked her who my father was, and she explained that he was a very great man, an explorer. He was busy travelling the world, which was why he couldn't be at home with us. But one day, she hoped he would come back.

As I got older, my father began to send me gifts, usually toys and books. These gifts would always be accompanied by a note, such as: 'My dear Erik, I hope you're being a good boy. It is important that you read this book because it will tell you about our country's history.' And inside the package there would be this eye-wateringly tedious book about the history of the French aristocracy. This was a subject in which I had no interest whatsoever, but I forced myself to read it, in the hope that through reading it I would somehow get to know my father.

One day, a very different gift arrived. It was a toy theatre, a little model of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. I'm still not sure why, but I fell in love with that theatre. My mother had a small library of plays from her time on the stage, and I would use these to put on shows in the toy theatre. I performed all the parts, and when I ran out of play scripts I begged my mother to borrow libretti from the Opera House. Fortunately, she had kind friends at the Opera, who agreed to loan her old, unused texts.

Needless to say, I was delighted. I staged the operas in my toy theatre, and sang all the great roles of that time. Because I could not yet read music, I was obliged to make up the melodies as I went along. And I think it was this that planted the idea that I could become a composer.

It was my mother who first taught me to sing. She had a good voice, and I learned a great deal from her. But my voice soon developed beyond her abilities to coach.

My mother was not terribly fond of conversation, although sometimes she would tell me stories about her time at the theatre. Funny stories that made us both laugh. By the way she talked I could tell how much she missed her life on the stage, and once I asked her if she thought she would ever return.

"No," she said sadly. But then she smiled. "But it doesn't matter, because one day you'll be onstage. You'll sing at the Opera and I'll be able to come and watch you."

Even as a child, I knew that my mother's ambition for me was rather unrealistic. On the rare occasions when I left our flat to run errands for her, I was aware of people staring at me. Sometimes, I heard them whispering cruel things as I passed by. When I told my mother about this, she was furious. She said I should not listen to them, that I was not remotely ugly and I did not look like a monster.

But she was unable to look me in the eye, so I knew she was just trying to spare my feelings. And besides, I had seen my reflection enough times to know that I looked different from other people.

However, I rarely let any of this upset me. I had so many things to occupy my mind. My father had learned of my interest in music and the theatre and started sending me music books. Once, he even sent me a violin. For three weeks, my mother was bombarded with complaints from our landlady as I screeched my way through my library of songbooks. But it was too late. My love of music and theatre was all-consuming. And the Opera, being a combination of both these passions, became my ultimate goal.

I began to beg my mother to allow me to accompany her to work, so I could hear the operas in rehearsal. But she would always refuse, saying that the theatre was no place for children. I was hurt at the time, but now I honestly believe she had no choice. Sometimes I wonder if the management even knew she had a child.

I began to explore other avenues which would allow me to achieve a musical education. When I was thirteen years old, I asked my mother if I could be sent to school. My mother said no. She could not afford such a thing. And yet, several weeks later, she asked me to make myself presentable and dress in my best clothes. I was introduced to Professor Guizot, a music tutor usually resident at the Conservatoire, who had been hired to educate me privately.

This perplexed me; after all, if my mother did not have the money to send me to school, then how could she possibly afford a private tutor?

Eventually, the truth dawned. It had to be my father. My father had sent my mother money so she could afford to pay for my education.

Professor Guizot proved to be an excellent teacher. He was flawlessly polite, never commenting upon my face, and incredibly knowledgeable about music. In fact, even to this day I have rarely met his equal as a musician. He had Hector Chalumeau's talent combined with Monsieur Reyer's dogged commitment. Under his supervision, I learned how to read music. My singing voice developed beyond my wildest expectations. He was impressed with my ability on the violin, and he even had a pianoforte brought to our apartment – funded by my father, I suspect – to give me another instrument on which to compose.

The Professor was only a young man, not yet out of his twenties, and yet he seemed impossibly mature and sophisticated to me. I soon realised that I wanted what he had. I wanted to audition for the Conservatoire, and study there, and compose music. I even dared to hope that I would one day be able to sing at the Opera, which was my ultimate dream. The Professor was delighted by my enthusiasm, and agreed to support my application to study voice and composition.

And then January arrived. That terrible January of my fifteenth year, when there was no envelope.

My mother was, in many respects, a strong and practical woman. She did not panic. She said that the envelope might have become lost in the post. There would be another one next month, and together with her small salary from the Opera, we had enough money to live on in the meantime.

February. Still no envelope. March and April went by, with no word or money from my father.

One morning in April, my mother put on her best dress and left the house. Some instinct made me follow her. She had barely spoken to me in days and was clearly not herself. I suppose I sensed that something was wrong, and I wanted to be sure that she was safe. Paris was still recovering from the horrors of the war and the Commune, and some of the streets were still unsafe.

But I need not have feared, at least not on that score. I followed my mother to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I had read that this was the most affluent area of Paris, long the favourite haunt of the French nobility. As I followed my mother between the rows of fine buildings, I wondered whom she could possibly know in this district.

She stopped at the door of a very grand house, and lifted the doorknocker. I dived around the side of the house and watched as someone came to the door. There was a brief discussion that I could not quite hear, and then my mother disappeared inside. I waited. Half an hour later, my mother came out. She walked down the front steps with her head held high, but I could see that she was crying.

I ran ahead of her, back to our home, where I could wait and pretend that I had never been out. When she arrived, I left my room to greet her, and saw that she was still weeping.

"Are you all right, mother?" I asked, as innocently as I could.

"I've just had some very bad news. Your father is dead, Erik." She pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I'm very sorry."

Of course, I wasn't sure what to think. It was hard to grieve for someone I had never met, and yet I still felt that I had lost something irreplaceable. And my mother's news did not seem to fit with her visit to the house. Did it belong to my father's relatives? And if so, why did my mother have to seek them out?

"Did he die exploring?" I asked carefully.

"Your father was an aristocrat. We met at the theatre. But it was impossible for us to stay together. His family would never have allowed it." She paused and looked at me sadly. "I am so sorry."

And then I understood. My father was not an explorer, and he had never been married to my mother. The house had belonged to my father, or perhaps his relatives, and they had turned my mother away. Perhaps they did not even know of my existence.

Many years later, I returned to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and sought out my father's house. But it was empty. The windows were boarded up.

My poor mother. I think she honestly loved my father, and hoped he would come back to her someday. And who knows? Perhaps he wanted to. Never, ever get yourself mixed up with the aristocracy, Christine. In my experience, it always ends badly. I have seen the same scenario play out many times. Sometimes, I watch Sorelli with Count Philippe and I want to shout out a warning.

"Your father provided for you as far as he was able, " my mother said, wiping her tears. "We'll be all right."

And yet, over the following months little comforts started to disappear from our home. My mother sold what little jewellery she had and worked every hour she could at the Opera.

Professor Guizot continued to teach me, but I'm convinced that he was not being paid by then. He pressed me to audition for the Conservatoire immediately. He said I might be eligible for a scholarship. However, I knew that my face might prove to be an issue, so I asked my mother to borrow a blank white mask from the Opera wardrobe. It covered my entire face apart from my mouth, allowing me to sing clearly.

It wasn't the worst mask I have ever owned, and yet my mother wept when she gave it to me.

One morning, with the mask carefully in place, I went with Professor Guizot to the Conservatoire, where my audition awaited me.

I think you can guess the rest, Christine. I sang for the selection panel. I played my violin. I showed them my compositions. They gave every sign of being impressed.

And then they asked me to take my mask off.

I wanted to, Christine. I really did. I wanted to gain their acceptance. And yet I found that I couldn't. Some instinct told me that, if I removed the mask, they wouldn't see my talent or my passion. They would only see my face.

So I refused.

The selection panel conferred for several minutes, and then told me that my music was childish and uninspired, and that my voice was underdeveloped. Perhaps I could come back next year, _without the mask._

Professor Guizot went into a rage. I had never seen a man so angry. He shouted at his fellow professors, and called them cowardly, gutless fools.

We left together, and I never went back. And neither, I think, did he.

The rejection from the Conservatoire left me despondent. I sold the pianoforte, and the money helped us for a while.

But then the fire happened.

I suppose you've heard about the fire at the old opera house, the Salle Le Peletier, Christine? It was a terrible night. You could see the blaze from my mother's flat. There's a theory that it was started by the gas lamps, which had been such an innovation when they were first installed. The fire raged for seventy -two hours, and when it was finally brought under control, there was no more Opera.

Although I wasn't at the Opera and I didn't see the fire up close, I still have nightmares about it even now. Except in my dreams, it's our Opera, the Garnier, which goes up in flames. And whenever I have this dream, even if it's the middle of the night, I have to leave my apartment and make sure that the Opera is still there, unscathed by fire.

My mother had been working at the Opera the night of the fire, working late, and she had only just escaped before it really took hold. The incident shocked her to the core. Not only had she lost her livelihood, but the place she loved. When she returned home, she was a very different woman.

She refused to leave the house. Refused to seek employment elsewhere. The thought of the same thing happening again terrified her. As time went by and she became yet more reclusive, I knew that I would have to find a way to support us both.

I went out looking for work, but it soon became clear that potential employers were alarmed by my appearance. I was despairing of ever finding a job, until one evening I passed a pavement café, and had an idea.

There was a musician wandering between the tables, playing a violin. Badly. The customers were cringing, and the maître d was starting to look upset. I still had my violin. And I could play with far more skill than this poor fellow.

The following day, my mask securely in place, I took my violin to a busy market square, not far from where the old Opera had once stood, and began to play. Some people stopped to listen and threw coins into my violin case. Some even applauded.

I made a little money that day. Not much, but a start. For a month I moved around that busy square, playing next to market stalls and outside restaurants, anywhere where there was people. I even started to sing, accompanying myself on the violin.

And then, early one evening, the inevitable happened. A man decided to tear my mask off. He was drunk, and he was laughing with a group of friends, and he did it completely without warning. When he saw my face, he turned pale and apologised instantly. His friends had dared him to do it. He had had no idea. He was so very sorry.

I glared at him and tied my mask back in place. But it was too late. Another passer-by had already seen me.

There was a man hanging around a short distance away, apparently drawn by the commotion. As I packed my violin away, shaken by the incident and wanting to leave early, he approached me.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he said, with a small, polite bow. "I often stop to listen to you and I have been meaning to speak with you for some time. It's clear you have an exceptional talent."

"Thank you," I muttered, closing my violin case. Under normal circumstances the compliment might have pleased me, but tonight I just wanted to go home.

"I could not help but notice the way that idiot treated you just now," the man continued. "He clearly has no appreciation of your talent. But I do. And as it happens, I run a travelling theatre company where your talent would be greatly appreciated."

I raised my eyebrows beneath the mask. "You'll forgive me if I struggle to believe you, given the circumstances."

"But I'm sorry, I have not introduced myself!" He bowed again. "I am Albert Fleck, actor and impresario, from England. My company have performed all the greats: Shakespeare, you name it. We are in desperate need of a musician of your aptitude." He handed me a square of paper. "Here's my card with my Paris address. Please say you'll think about it. Travelling is a chore, but I would make sure you earned good money, far more than you could ever earn here."

And then he bowed again, and left me to my thoughts.

It was true I was making money from my street performances, but the amount was negligible. My mother had not yet recovered sufficiently to find a job. The end of the month was looming, and I knew we would not have enough money to pay the rent.

Before I had even reached our flat, I had made my decision.

The following morning I packed my bags. Then I visited Professor Guizot and explained my plans to him, and asked him to keep an eye on my mother. He quizzed me about the theatre company…were they reputable? I honestly had no idea, but I assured him that they were. Eventually, although he still appeared suspicious, he agreed to help me.

Thanking him, I returned home and explained to my mother that I had found work as a musician with a travelling theatre company. I said I would visit her as soon as I could, and in the meantime I would send money. She shed a few tears, but did not argue, so I kissed her goodbye and left with my luggage and my violin.

The business card directed me to a rundown area of Paris. A huddle of brightly-coloured tents were pitched in an empty square. There was not a soul to be seen anywhere, and an eerie wind disturbed the tent flaps.

My new employer was staying at an inn in the square. I knocked on the door and asked for Mr Fleck. He appeared a moment later, smiling broadly and shaking me by the hand.

"I am so glad that you could come," he said. "Here, follow me. Let me show you around."

He led me between the nearest tents. A larger tent, almost like a circus big top, loomed in front of us.

"This is our theatre," he said proudly.

Then I saw the painted banner above the door, and suddenly felt very cold.

In large, bright letters, the tented establishment proclaimed itself to be _Fleck's Fabulous Freaks: The World's Greatest Museum of Oddities and Wonders. _

Fleck pushed aside the tent flap, and I froze, unable to move as I peered reluctantly inside.

The tent was divided into curtained booths. Each booth contained an empty chair. But it was the posters hung between each booth that so disturbed me. Each poster bore the garish, painted caricature of a performer. I saw 'The Living Skeleton', 'The World's Fattest Man,' 'The Wolf-Boy' and 'The Lion-Faced Lady.'

I rounded on my guide. "This isn't a theatre!" I cried. "You lied to me!"

He smiled. "I was merely being discreet. I thought you would understand my meaning."

I gestured towards the posters. "Who are those people?"

His smile was becoming infuriating. "They are my company. Your colleagues and fellow performers. A very talented troop, make no mistake."

"What do you want from me?" My voice sounded very small.

The smile vanished, and he looked at me incredulously. "You're serious, aren't you? You really don't understand?"

I shook my head.

"I want to exhibit you. You're the most interesting specimen I have ever seen."

"I am not a specimen!" I spat. "You led me to believe you were hiring me as a musician."

"I am! I am! That will form the most important part of your act. I'm going to build a stage just for you, with a red velvet curtain, and I'm going to give you the top billing. They'll come to see your face, but they'll stay for your music. Trust me. I'm a music connoisseur. I know what I'm talking about."

"You want me to show my face." My voice sounded flat and expressionless.

"Of course. The act will hinge on the contrast between your face and your music. You'll be a sensation, and we'll both be rich. You'll live respectably, in fine lodgings, and people will come from far and wide to hear your music." He turned to me with a sorrowful expression. "I'm willing to bet that no opera house in the world would give you such a chance. Am I right?"

I thought about the closed, emotionless faces of the Conservatoire selection panel. And I felt myself nod. Fleck was delighted, and ushered me into an empty, rather shabby tent. These, apparently, were my living quarters.

"But they're only temporary," he assured me. "Just you wait. You'll soon be able to afford the finest hotels in France."

He retreated to the inn and left me alone.

Please understand, Christine. I was very young. I was without employment, in a big city, and my mother, my only remaining relative, was relying on me. This man was offering me an income, and a roof, of a sort, over my head. And, although I'm ashamed to admit it now, a part of me - a youthful, still optimistic part – believed his tales of fame and fortune. Apart from anything else, he was giving me the chance to sing and play my violin before a hopefully appreciative audience. Aside from unkind comments on the street and the rejection from the Conservatoire, I had only known acceptance from those closest to me, namely my mother and Professor Guizot. I had not yet seen cruelty in men's eyes.

So I decided to stay.

Fleck was as good as his word. Within the space of two days he built me my very own stage, with red velvet curtains. He even brought me a beautiful costume to wear – an evening suit, as if I was a musician in an opera house orchestra. And he said I could select my own music. Apparently this music connoisseur knew nothing about opera, so he said he trusted my judgement.

All of these were positive signs, so I set to work. I had brought some of my music scores with me, and I spent many hours rehearsing my chosen songs in my tent. Four days after my arrival at the show, I was ready to make my debut.

I waited, trembling, behind the stage curtains as Fleck delivered a speech to the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you're in for a treat! I present to you a gentleman of talent and sophistication. A gentleman with a voice guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts. But a gentleman so hideous that he has made great men quake with fear. Will you flee from the sight of his face, or stay and marvel at the beauty of his voice? Will beauty overcome ugliness? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…The Singing Gargoyle!"

I shuddered. I did not like my stage name in the least. But I did not have time to dwell on this, because the curtains slid open, and I found myself exposed and vulnerable upon the stage.

There were gasps. Peering into the sea of faces before me, it seemed that the entire audience had taken a collective step backwards, away from me.

And then someone screamed.

I had never heard anyone scream like that in my life. It was a scream of horror, quickly followed by another. I looked around in panic, trying to locate the danger. Finding nothing, I turned back to the audience, and in their horrified faces, I saw the truth.

I was the danger.

They were screaming at me.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw faces pale with horror, and mouths wide like ovals.

_What __**was**__ this?_

Fleck's voice, booming in my ears: "Hideous, is he not? Well, let me see if I can turn your horror into admiration. Sing!"

I continued to stare at the audience, too frightened to move a muscle, let alone sing.

"Sing!" Fleck's mouth was by my ear, and anger and impatience was building in his voice.

I was silent. Someone in the crowd started to boo.

Then I felt something cold and hard dig into my back, just below my ribcage. And Fleck's ugly voice hissed in my ear: "Sing, damn you."

I opened my mouth and coaxed out the first bars of an operatic aria.

"Louder."

I closed my eyes and raised my voice. The knife – for that was what it was – left my back. And Fleck retreated into the wings.

I sang. Tears ran down my cheeks. And the audience fell silent, and listened.

When I had finished, I heard their mutterings.

"Unnatural. Quite unnatural."

"Disturbing."

"I can't believe such an ugly creature can sing so well."

"It must be a trick. Perhaps he has a tenor from the Opera hidden backstage."

"Well, they are all out of a job at the moment."

Laughter.

But the audience was apparently satisfied with my performance, because before leaving the tent, they showered the stage with coins. I stood in silence, trembling, watching the coins land at my feet – _plink, plink, plink -_ feeling sick, the screams and insults still ringing in my ears.

I had to get out of there. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't believe that my face, something which was simply a part of me, could be the source of such revulsion. And I found myself thinking back to all the people I had encountered in my life, and interpreted their expressions somewhat differently. I saw the sorrow in my mother's eyes, and the guarded pity in Professor Guizot's. In my mind's eye, I saw distaste and disbelief.

Sinking to my knees amongst the coins, I wept.


	19. Someone Handsome

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews for the last chapter, and for the continued support of this story. I'm so sorry for the long delay, and I hope you're still reading and enjoy this new chapter!

**Chapter 19: Someone Handsome**

1.

The gardens were dark now, but Christine could still smell the roses and hear the water splashing into the bowl of the fountain. She was glad of the noise; it gave her a distraction, an escape from the images which Erik's story had painted in her mind.

In her mind's eye she saw him as a boy, trembling in front of a hostile audience, and then sinking to the stage floor as the coins fell like hail around him.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to suppress the tears, and when she opened them again she was almost startled to see Erik still sitting there on the picnic rug. The masked side of his face was turned away from her, and he was leaning over slightly, his long fingers digging into the material of the rug, clutching it tightly.

"I stayed there for five years," he said softly. "Five years, Christine, before I could get away."

Five years in a freak show! The thought chilled Christine. She had no reply to his words. _I'm sorry_ did not seem sufficient.

"How did you get away?" she asked gently.

Erik closed his eyes. "I tried to escape. Many times. But Fleck's cronies were always too quick for me, and I was always dragged back to the fair. I had no way of writing to my mother or Professor Guizot…I was a prisoner. I travelled with the fair until someone saved me."

"Who?"

He swallowed hard, and then, in a low, pained whisper: "The Vicomte de Chagny."

Christine blinked. How could Raoul have rescued Erik? He must have been an infant at the time. And then the truth dawned on her. "Philippe."

Erik nodded. "Yes. Philippe. He was still a viscount then, and he had only recently become a patron of Opera. And he was just as fond of the ballerinas as he is today. This was long before La Sorelli, of course. At that time, he claimed to love Antoinette."

Christine gasped. She tried – and failed – to imagine Madame Giry having anything to do with Philippe de Chagny. The very idea seemed absurd.

"If I'm painting a rather sordid picture, I would like to assure you that there wasn't anything untoward. Philippe admired Antoinette greatly. He brought her flowers after her performances. He declared his love for her, once, during a party at the bistro."

"What happened?"

"She rebuffed him, of course. Told him not to be so silly, that such a thing was impossible. This is Antoinette we're talking about, Christine." Erik smiled slightly, and Christine could not help noticing the fondness in the expression. "But they did remain on good terms for a long time. In those days, Philippe was rather gallant." Erik's face became solemn, his smile vanishing. "Antoinette visited the fair when it came back to Paris, with a couple of other girls from the ballet. She saw me. She even heard me sing. She said later that she felt sorry for me, sorry that I had to waste my talent in such a place, but also sorry for my…predicament." Erik shuddered. "She said she could tell I wasn't there by choice."

Christine was silent, wondering what Antoinette had seen: Erik threatened? Erik injured? It was too horrible to think about.

"She went away and told Philippe about me, begged him to help me." Erik's voice was very soft, almost a whisper. "Philippe hired some men – servants of his, I think – to break into the fair in the middle of the night and get me out. It all happened very quickly. They drove me away in a carriage and took me to one of Philippe's townhouses in Paris, where he let me stay until I had recovered." Erik shook his head. "I never saw Fleck again. Sometimes I think my rescue was a little too easy, a little too neat. For a while I wondered if Philippe's men had actually killed Fleck, but then a few years later I saw a poster advertising Fleck's Fabulous Freaks, with all new attractions. I was afraid he would come after me, but he never did."

"What do you think happened?"

Erik had turned completely away from her, so that all she could see was a hunched figure in the darkness. "I think Philippe paid him off."

"So Philippe gave him money…"

"To stay away. Yes." The dark shape shuddered. "Whatever happened, I feel that I owe Philippe a debt I can never repay. And he never tires of reminding me of the fact. He got me out of that terrible place. Afterwards, he helped me find new employment at a cabaret, where I could sing and play the piano without revealing my face. It was better than the fair, but they never really listened to my music. I was constantly heckled. They kept asking me to take my mask off…but it _was _better. And then Philippe arranged an audition for me at his home, in front of the Opera House managers. That's how I came to be at the Opera. It's all because of Philippe. I wouldn't even be the artistic director if he hadn't persuaded the Ministry of Fine Arts that I was capable of the task." Erik paused. "That's why, until recently, I found myself bowing so often to his influence. I needed his patronage. Without him, I would still be a sideshow freak."

The last words were sharp and cruel, as if Erik was trying to hurt himself with them. He had been speaking with his back to Christine, and now she saw his shoulders hitch. "You must think…I don't know what you must think of me…"

"Oh, Erik, Erik…" Christine crawled over to him, across the picnic rug, ignoring the plates of uneaten cheese and bread. She draped an arm around his shoulders. He wasn't crying so much as shivering, she realised. Shivering with fear…of what? That she would reject him?

Pulling him into a tighter embrace, she spoke softly into his ear. "Erik. This is what I think of you. I think you're the most intelligent, talented man I have ever met." She removed his straw hat and ran a hand through his soft hair. "Your voice is glorious. And if those people who stared at you and heckled you couldn't recognise that…well, then I must say I pity them."

"That's kind of you," Erik said softly, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "But you're wrong…you deserve more, Christine. You deserve someone...someone..."

"Someone what?"

"Someone handsome," he whispered.

Christine gave a smile which went unseen by Erik.

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "I do."

He lifted his head and looked at her with a wounded expression. She forced her smile to widen into a grin.

"So it's a good thing you're here, isn't it?"

His mouth fell open, and then closed again, and then fell open again. His golden-brown eyes widened in apparent confusion. For a moment, he simply stared at her.

And then the unmasked corner of his lips lifted, ever so slightly. And then, much to her relief, he started to laugh.

"Oh, Christine! I wish I shared your gift for sentimentality," he chuckled. "Perhaps you've been spending too much time with Meg."

She made a supreme effort to look insulted. "It's the truth." Reaching out, she cupped his unmasked cheek with her hand. Erik's cheek was soft and full, a startling contrast to the hardness of his mask. He stopped laughing instantly when she touched him, and stared at her with frightened eyes. "You think you're ugly," she said, tracing the shape of his cheek with her finger. "I don't share your view. Perhaps, one day, you'll believe me."

"One day…" He spoke the words thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, Christine, but I find it rather difficult to believe that this is happening, that you can sit there, listen to my story…touch my cheek…" He caught her hand and squeezed it tenderly. "You keep coming back to me, don't you? Why?"

"Well, you have a very fine taste in hats..." Christine broke into a smile when she saw the mildly offended look on Erik's face. "Erik, why do you think I keep coming back? I want to be with you." She paused, knowing that this would be the most difficult moment. She was not sure how Erik was going to react. Or, indeed, what she was going to do if he reacted badly. "Do you remember that night, after the gala…when you told me you loved me?"

He looked away. "Yes."

"I was scared then. Not of you," she added hastily, when his head drooped in shame. "Your confession…it was just so unexpected, and I didn't really know how to react. But now…" She enclosed his hand with her own. "Erik. I care about you very deeply…"

"Christine, please, you can't really mean that…"

"And why would I say it if it wasn't true?" She looked at him intently, looked into his eyes and saw fear and apprehension and adoration…and something else.

For the first time, she saw hope.

Before she had time to change her mind, Christine leaned forward and kissed Erik on the lips.

The kiss was not exactly deep; she could feel Erik trembling in her arms, and she was afraid he was going to break free from her embrace and flee into the night. But he stayed, and after a moment she felt him relax slightly and return the kiss. All the time she was aware of the barrier of Erik's mask falling over one half of his lips, a cold presence against her cheek. But his lips themselves were warm and soft. She wished she could tear the mask away so she could deepen the kiss, but of course she did not dare.

He broke the kiss with a low moan and got unsteadily to his feet. She stood too, and for a moment he simply gazed at her, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Oh," he said, reaching up to touch his lips lightly with a finger. She realised he looked…_lost_, as if a moment ago he was sure of the world and his place in it, and now reality had been turned on its head. His eyes were shimmering, liquid gold.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" Her voice was gentle. He continued to shake his head, backing away a step. "Erik?"

"Forgive me…I don't know what…I don't know why I…" He raised his arms and dropped them in frustration. "Forgive me," he said again.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said. "I wanted to kiss you."

"But Christine…what happens now?"

This was a valid question, and one which Christine did not feel fully equipped to answer.

She loved Erik, she was certain of that now, and the fact was both wonderful and frightening.

He was starting to look nervous, as if her lack of a reply was the same as a "nothing." She touched his arm reassuringly.

"We can do this again, if you like. We can come back to the park, or go somewhere else."

"You want to continue spending time with me?" His voice was small, but hopeful.

"Of course." She smiled at him. "Next time, perhaps we can go to the bistro together. I would love to sing with you again."

He shuddered. "I do not sing in public. That time at the bistro was an anomaly which I deeply regret." She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first. "I do not mean singing with you, Christine. Singing with you was a great honour. We can sing together any time you wish, but I want to share my voice with you and you alone." He sighed deeply. "After all I've told you today, I hope you understand why."

She nodded. "Of course, Erik. I just want you to know that there are others who would value your talents. Your voice is beautiful, and one day I hope you feel able to share it with the world again."

He looked as if he didn't quite believe her. Then he sighed and began to gather up the picnic things.

"Are you all right?" Christine was slightly alarmed by his apparent need for a distraction.

Erik smiled briefly. "Of course. But it's getting late. May I walk you home?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Looping her arm through his, Christine walked alongside Erik, through the gardens and onto the lamp-lit streets. During their walk to the park, Erik had glanced around in a hunted fashion, as if fearing he was being watched. But now, in the darkness, with less people on the streets, he seemed more relaxed.

Christine glanced up at his masked face and smiled. The white porcelain glowed softly in the moonlight.

2.

_Don Juan Triumphant._

It seemed that every resident of the Opera House, every singer and stagehand and musician, spoke of nothing else. The name of Erik's opera was alternately imbued with awe and frustration.

Lately, it was frustration which seemed to be most prevalent.

Christine looked around the rehearsal room at two dozen tired, bewildered faces. The principals, together with most of the chorus, had gathered here at 9am that morning, for a sing-through of the entire score. It was now 3.30pm in the afternoon, and Christine knew that no opera, however ambitious in scope, should last for six and a half hours.

Actually, and much to the relief of everyone present, _Don Juan_ did not actually have a playing time of over six hours. Rather, the length of the rehearsal was down to Erik's sheer perfectionism. They had been rehearsing _Don Juan_ for three weeks, but there were still some 'musical issues', as Erik put it, and this would be one of the last opportunities he would have to correct the problems before the dress rehearsal in two day's time.

"No. No. No!" Erik brought his hands down violently upon the keys of the unfortunate rehearsal piano, which had taken quite a pummelling over the last few weeks. The company jumped and sat to attention; Christine realised that many of them had been on the verge of falling asleep.

Erik whirled around on the stool and fixed his gaze upon the unfortunate figure of Don Juan himself, who was looking anything but triumphant.

Signor Piangi shook his head in confusion. "Signor Carriere, I don't understand…"

"Here is the phrase," Erik said in a strained voice, turning around again to demonstrate on the piano. "Those who tangle with Don Juan. If you please?"

Piangi stared at Erik for a moment, then made an attempt to copy him. "Those who tangle with Don Juan…"

Christine saw Erik close his eyes and rub his forehead with a hand. He looked exhausted. In fact, he had looked tired for days. She wondered if he was having sleepless nights. At the moment, the uncovered half of his face was a study in patience, the sort of patience which was hanging by a thread that could snap at any moment.

"Nearly," Erik said softly. "But no. Listen. Those who tan – tan – tan."

Piangi looked at Erik as though he had gone mad. Then he glanced around the room, as if seeking help. Finally, he gave up, and repeated the phrase.

"Those who tan tan tan…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Erik struck the piano keys once more. "Really, Signor Piangi, I did not mean that literally. I was doing it for emphasis."

Piangi wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Forgive me, Signor. It is…so modern. It is…confusing."

"I do wish you would take a little more care with my piano," said Monsieur Reyer. The repetiteur was seated nearby, holding another copy of the score. Erik had banished him from the piano stool in a fit of pique an hour earlier, after the unfortunate man had played a wrong note.

"And I wish you would listen to him," said Carlotta, glaring at Erik but pointing at Piangi. "At least he makes it sound like music."

A couple of the singers stifled giggles. Erik glowered around the room as if searching for the culprits.

"When I desire your opinion, Signora," he said, "I shall ask for it."

Christine looked at the diva and sighed. She knew that Erik had not wanted to cast Carlotta, but he had been overruled; the Ministry of Fine Arts had been true to its word, and Monsieur Lefevre, the business manager, had been ordered to oversee the casting. With a great amount of diplomacy, Lefevre had managed to tempt Piangi back – something which she knew Erik was secretly pleased about – but he had also insisted upon casting Carlotta in a featured role ("to keep the public happy"). He had originally wanted to cast her in the lead role of Aminta, but Erik had (rather loudly) disagreed, and Christine had gotten the part.

She almost wished she hadn't.

Aminta was a great role. A gift of a role, really, and Christine knew that Erik saw it very much as a gift. At the beginning of the rehearsal period he had presented her with a copy of the score, bound in embossed leather and tied with a piece of ribbon.

"I want you to be the first to read it," he said, his eyes sparkling despite the dark shadows beneath them.

If taken at surface value, it was a curious gift. Aminta, seduced by a disguised Don Juan, did not exactly have an easy time. But the true gift was the music, wonderful, complex music which stretched Christine's voice to its full potential. Even though Erik's lessons had prepared her well, she still feared that it was a challenge beyond her capabilities. She was tormented by doubts every time she saw Carlotta, who seemed to take great pleasure in sneering at her whenever she attempted a difficult phrase.

"Now," said Erik. "Let's try again. Miss Daae? May we have your line, please?"

Christine got to her feet. "Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"

Erik's fingers halted on the keyboard. "Again."

"Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"

"Again, Christine. Louder."

"Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"

"Again!"

Christine threw down her score with a sigh. "Really, Erik. I think we're all very tired. May we stop now?"

Erik narrowed his eyes at her: in concern or irritation, she could not quite tell. Then he sighed and stared at his hands where they rested upon the piano keys.

"Yes," he said softly. "Perhaps we should stop." He raised his voice. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, you're dismissed. Please be here promptly at the same time tomorrow."

The company began to disperse. Christine went to retrieve her _Don Juan_ score, but Erik leaned over first and handed it to her.

"Would you stay here for a moment, please, Miss Daae?"

Christine watched the last of the company hurry out of the room, as if fearing that Erik would also decide to detain them.

She waited until they were alone before she spoke. "What is it?"

He reached towards her, as if meaning to touch her hair, but at the last moment he seemed to decide against it, letting his hand fall to his side. He looked at her with guarded affection.

"You do look very tired," he said. "I'm sorry to keep you."

"That's all right, Erik," she said, although she desperately wanted to go home and sleep. She opened her score. "Did you want to go through something?"

"No." He sat down upon the piano stool. "I just wanted to see you."

Christine smiled. Ever since their picnic – and kiss – in the Tuileries, Erik had been coming up with a variety of increasingly inventive excuses to spend time with her. Most of these excuses revolved around his opera, his need to hear her sing certain passages "without any interruptions from the company", as he put it. Christine wanted to tell him that he did not need to offer any excuse, that he could talk with her at any time, but the kiss had apparently made him shy.

"Erik, you've been able to see me all morning." She spoke lightly, amusement in her voice.

"Talk to you, then." His hands tensed upon the keys. "But if you'd rather not…"

"No, no." She sat down beside him on the bench. "What is it?"

He gave a soft sigh. "Nerves, I think. These rehearsals are more difficult than I had anticipated. In short, I'm worried this is going to be a disaster beyond imagination."

She laughed. "Erik, we've made so much progress over the last week. Everyone's just a little tired, that's all." She leaned over and planted a light kiss on the top of his head. "It'll be fine."

"Is Carlotta giving you a hard time?"

"Not really. She just makes me feel inadequate. But I suspect she has that effect on everybody. Please, Erik, don't let it worry you."

"You're wonderful, Christine." His golden eyes were warm and soft. He only held her gaze for a moment before turning away. "I wish…"

"What do you wish?"

"I wish, after the opera is over, that perhaps…" He stopped and shook his head. "Nothing. I just hope this is a success. That's enough for anyone to hope for."

Christine felt this was not what Erik had meant to say at all. But she did not wish to rush him or scare him, so she merely nodded.

"I know," she said. "And now I should really go home and rest." She patted his hand. "So should you."

He nodded, although she did not believe he meant to relax: far from it. His eyes were once again fixed on the _Don Juan_ score.

"Good night, Christine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Christine made her way to the entrance foyer, hoping to catch up with Meg. She had not had the opportunity to talk to her friend in a few days, and she was eager to speak to her about Erik…she still hadn't told the dancer about the picnic, and she was composing a slightly edited, gossip-proof account of the events in her mind. Unfortunately, when she reached the foyer, Meg was nowhere to be seen.

"Christine."

She jumped at the sound of her name, but then realised that she knew the voice. Turning around, she found Raoul standing between two marble columns. His brow was furrowed and his eyes appeared red and tired. In fact, he looked extremely worried, which was unusual for a man who had generally seemed so light-hearted whenever she was in his company.

"Raoul? Are you all right?"

Raoul glanced around the foyer as if looking for someone. "I've been waiting for you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." Raoul's nervous manner was starting to scare her. "Raoul? What is it? What's happened?"

"Can we go somewhere private and talk?"

"Of course." Christine nodded towards the grand staircase. "Follow me."

She led him back to her dressing room. Fortunately the other members of the company had been so eager to leave the Opera that there was no one around to see them go in. As soon as they were inside, Raoul closed the door and sank into a chair, his hands over his face.

"Raoul! Please, tell me what's happened."

The Vicomte de Chagny removed his hands from his face and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"It's Philippe. He's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"I don't know." Raoul was shaking. "We had an argument last night. A terrible row. He found out about _Don Juan Triumphant_, you see. God, I feel terrible…"

"What about _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

"Christine, I'm Erik's patron. After Erik saw fit to end his association with my brother, I wanted to help. I love my brother dearly, but I'm aware of how much pressure he was putting on Erik…upon the entire company. I wanted to help. And I wanted to ensure that Erik was able to stage the opera without my brother's financial support." Raoul looked away from her. "I wanted him to stage it, because I knew what a wonderful opportunity it would be for you."

"Oh, Raoul…" Christine remembered his despondent expression at the restaurant, when she had spoken to him of her feelings for Erik. She couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt. "That's very kind of you."

Raoul waved a hand dismissively. "I _wanted_ to do it. I'm twenty-one now, and it was my allowance, to do with as I pleased. So I financed _Don Juan_. And somehow my brother found out. He confronted me about it, told me I had no business meddling in the affairs of his Opera House. _His_ Opera House, Christine! And then he asked if Erik had demanded the money from me, and I said no, how could he even think such a thing? And then he started raving about how this was all Erik's fault, how he should not be allowed to stage his obscene opera, and how he was going to report him to the Ministry of Fine Arts…though for what transgression, I have no idea." Raoul covered his face with his hands again. "He said he was going to the Ministry immediately, and stormed out of the room. I haven't seen him since. I'm just so worried he's going to attempt to stop the opera, and make a fool out of himself in the process...Christine? Are you all right?"

Christine was trembling. As she listened to Raoul's story, the meaning of his words soon became clear: Philippe had no intention of looking foolish.

He meant to humiliate Erik.

Without offering Raoul an explanation, Christine dashed from her dressing room and hurried down the passageway.


	20. Let My Opera Begin

**Author's Note: **Thank you again for the lovely reviews! I'm so pleased that readers are still following and enjoying this story. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

**Chapter 20: Let My Opera Begin**

1.

Erik stared at the score of _Don Juan_, which now sat closed upon the piano. It was tempting to stay here and work all night, making tiny improvements to the music. Reyer would have a fit, of course, but Erik suspected that the répétiteur secretly relished the challenge which _Don Juan_ posed. Yes, there was surely more work to be done.

Opening the score again, he turned to the last page and read through the music. He brought a pen towards the paper, intending to add some embellishment.

His pen hovered over the page for a moment, but in his heart he already knew the truth: his opera was complete. And for the first time in many days, Erik felt empty.

And bereft.

Over the past few weeks, Erik had thrown himself into his opera, composing late into the night, working furiously to finish the last act. But now the music, which he had allowed to dominate his mind, was all gone, all neatly imprisoned on stave paper. His composer's instinct told him that any other additions or adjustments would be unnecessary.

_Don Juan Triumphant_ was finished; now all the fears which he had endeavoured to ignore since the picnic with Christine began to flow back into his mind. And he found himself thinking about the kiss.

Ah, yes. The kiss. Erik ran one finger hesitantly over his distorted lips and scowled. He did not know how Christine could bring herself to kiss them, or why she should want to, but she _had_. And Erik had the feeling that she would do so again, given the opportunity.

_Don Juan_ had been the perfect excuse to avoid such an opportunity. He had still needed to see Christine and talk with her, of course – the thought of being away from her for any length of time was becoming increasingly unbearable. But he had decided to postpone thoughts of the future until _Don Juan_ was complete.

Erik sighed. Tempting as it was to stay in the Opera House all night and brood, he knew that such behaviour would prove futile. Perhaps Christine was right and he simply needed rest; a good night's sleep might help clarify matters. Retrieving his cloak and hat from a row of pegs by the door, Erik left the rehearsal room and made his way outside.

The Place de l'Opera was relatively quiet; it was late afternoon; too early for the nearby bistros to be filled with diners, and too late for most people to be out shopping. A few members of the opera company hurried past Erik without a glance.

He walked slowly past a row of shops. Something made him pause outside the little jeweller's shop and stare into the window. The jeweller's had been a fixture since he had begun his career at the Opera; he had passed it everyday with barely a glance.

But now he found his eyes drawn towards a display of rings resting on velvet cushions. Erik had to fight the urge to press both hands against the glass. He found himself wondering if Christine would like such a ring, or whether she would prefer a plain gold band, or whether even having such a thought meant he was going mad…

He knew he was getting to the point where he wanted - _needed_ - to act upon his feelings for Christine. She had been sensitive to his reticence, apparently happy for him to take his time. She had suggested they go back to the Tuileries, or go out to dinner, but as soon as Erik started considering those options, a whole barrage of worries would assail his mind: _What if she grows bored with me? What if she realises that I'm very ugly, after all? _

He shook his head. It was no good. No matter how many 'what ifs' occurred to him, the simple fact was clear: he loved Christine. He loved her, and the rings taunted and tempted him from their velvet settings. But no, no…it was ridiculous to be thinking of such things so soon…

"Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

The voice, such a startling echo of his own thoughts, came from his left, making him jump. A shadow fell across the shop window, dulling the flecks of light on the jewellery.

Philippe de Chagny grinned and raised his hat.

"I would suggest that your interest in engagement rings is slightly premature," he said smoothly. "But I'm not one to interfere."

Erik glanced briefly away. "I was looking at the necklaces. We need one for _Don Juan_."

Philippe raised an eyebrow. "But of course."

"What do you want?"

"Me? Simply to admire the rings. Just like you." Erik glared at him; the Count ignored his expression and turned back towards the glass. Then, continuing in a voice edged with regret: "Of course, I'll never have reason to buy one. I'll never marry; there are too many things standing in my way." He sighed theatrically. "I know just how you feel, Erik."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You might think I'm a cold man, you might think I have no heart. But I do. I love Sorelli. But I can never marry her. My position in society will not allow it. It's exactly the same with you and Miss Daae."

"In what way?"

"Do you honestly think Christine is really interested in you? A man who has to wear a mask in public, lest people flee from the sight of his face…"

Erik winced. "You said you weren't a cold man, Monsieur le Comte."

Philippe spread his hands. "I'm a realist. That is all. At the moment, you're a man with power. You have music on your side, and unlimited access to the resources of one of the world's greatest Opera Houses. You can snap your fingers and make a star. No wonder Christine Daae chooses to spend so much time with you."

"You are wrong. She…" Erik paused, unwilling to share any details of his relationship with Christine. "She likes me for myself."

"I don't doubt it," said Philippe. "But at the moment you're the Director of the Opera. Do you think she would still admire you if you were nothing of the kind?"

"What are you saying?"

"I was just on my way to warn you. This morning I had an appointment with the Minister of Fine Arts…we're old friends, you know, and we've remained on good terms despite my lack of involvement with the Opera of late. Anyway, in the course of our conversation, the Minister happened to mention certain…_misgivings_ he had concerning the premiere of _Don Juan_."

Erik laughed, although secretly Philippe's words were filling him with dread. "Oh, really? Interesting that the Minister has not seen fit to address his concerns to me directly. What are these misgivings?"

"He's nervous that you're taking too much of a risk. He secretly wanted you to cast Carlotta in the lead. But instead you've cast Christine, and he's worried that Miss Daae will be neither a sufficient draw for the audiences or up to the task of performing such a complex role." Philippe leaned forward, his voice becoming low and conspiratorial. "You know what I would do? I would cancel _Don Juan_ and reinstate _Il Muto_ into the programme. Then everything would be so much easier for everyone. I would hate to see you fired over this, Carriere."

"I will do nothing of the sort!" snarled Erik. "You have no power over me, and no influence over the Opera. And even if you managed to get me fired, Christine would not care. She's my friend."

"Ah. Your friend. Of course." Philippe smiled unpleasantly. "I suppose you're aware of the friendship between Christine and my brother. It's nothing serious…just a youthful infatuation on Raoul's part. And quite impossible, of course, given Christine's position. But still, it does sound rather more plausible, don't you think? Opera singer and handsome aristocrat fall in love? Certainly more convincing than a lovely young woman falling for someone like you…" Philippe smiled. "Or perhaps she hasn't even seen your face."

Erik stepped forward and seized Philippe by the lapels of his frock coat. "Enough! How dare you threaten me in such a manner? You not only insult me, but you also insult Miss Daae and your own brother with your slanderous words! How could you?"

"I'm not a liar." Philippe wrenched his coat from Erik's grip. "You'll find that out soon enough."

"Erik!" Christine's voice cut across the quiet square. Erik whirled about to see her hurrying towards them, with Raoul de Chagny close behind.

Philippe gave a polite bow. "Mademoiselle Daae. Forgive this crass scene. Monsieur Carriere was merely demonstrating the gentlemanly behaviour which is so typical of his sophisticated character…"

"Monsieur Carriere," said Raoul. "I should be grateful if you treated my brother with a little more respect."

"I have been treating your brother with all the respect he deserves, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Erik, in the calmest tone he could manage. "I think it would be best if you both left us alone."

Christine stood her ground and placed her hands on her hips. Her look of disapproval was quite intimidating. Erik added it to his mental list of things about her which made him unexpectedly nervous.

"If you think for one moment that I'm going to walk away while you fight, then you're mistaken," she said.

"Yes," Raoul said, with slightly less conviction, glancing at Christine uncertainly. "That's right. You are."

Philippe clapped his hands together. "Well, this is excellent! After all, we have much to discuss. Miss Daae, as Erik's closest friend, perhaps you can talk some sense into him. You see, I've tried to tell him on more than one occasion that _Don Juan _is going to be a disaster, but he won't listen to me. He seems to think I'm trying to sabotage him…"

Christine narrowed her eyes. "You are! I know you've been to see the Minister of Fine Arts this morning. Raoul told me."

"Oh, yes?" Philippe glared at Raoul. "And I suppose you're still determined to support this folly? Really, Raoul. I thought you had more taste than to support such a cacophonous, amateurish mess of a score."

"How dare you!" Erik roared again, lunging towards the Count. He never found out whether he was truly capable of starting a fight with the man, because suddenly Christine's hand caught his arm, and her voice spoke by his ear.

"Leave him be, Erik," she said gently, but loud enough for all three of them to hear. "He is only jealous of you."

Philippe blinked. "I beg your pardon, Miss Daae?"

Christine took a step towards him. "You're jealous of Erik. That's what this is about, isn't it? You're jealous of his talent and the fact he's able to put it to good use."

Philippe laughed, and Erik shuddered; the sound was full of contempt, but there was also something else…an odd note of desperation.

"Jealous?" He chuckled. "My dear Miss Daae…you truly think I'm jealous of _him_?"

Christine looked at him calmly. Erik thought he saw pity flicker in her eyes. "Yes. I do."

Philippe wiped his eyes. "You're all as foolish as each other." He shook his head in apparent wonder. "Jealous!"

"You're the fool, Philippe, if you think your actions are going to ruin me." Christine's touch had calmed him slightly, although Erik's voice was still hoarse with nerves. "_Don_ _Juan_ will go ahead without your approval."

"Oh, really?" Philippe narrowed his eyes. "Then I would expect a visit from the Minister of Fine Arts on opening night. Or perhaps even during the dress rehearsal…"

"I have nothing more to say to you," said Erik. "As far as I'm concerned, our association is at an end."

Christine looked pointedly at Raoul, who nodded.

"Come along, Philippe," said the Viscount, placing a hand on his brother's arm. "This isn't helping anyone…"

Philippe tore his arm away. "What do you care?" He pointed to Erik. "You're on his side."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're my brother."

Philippe strode away, glaring at Erik as he went. With an apologetic glance at Erik and Christine, Raoul hurried to keep up with him.

Erik stared after them. His hands were curled into fists by his sides, and he was shaking.

"Bravo, Monsieur…" he murmured.

"Are you all right?" Christine squeezed his arm.

Erik turned to face her. She was looking at him with such concern, and suddenly he wanted to tell her that no, he was emphatically not all right, that Philippe's mocking words had exacerbated his own insecurities.

_You're the Director of the Opera. Do you honestly think she'd still admire you if you were nothing of the kind?_

"Erik?"

Shuddering, he tried to force the doubts away.

"Yes, Christine," he said. "I'm fine."

2.

Up until the night itself, the first performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ had seemed an almost abstract concept, or at least an event which was far off in the future.

But now Christine was in her dressing room, adding the final touches to her costume for the opening night.

She was relieved when the dress rehearsal passed without incident; Philippe de Chagny had not been present and neither had the Minister of Fine Arts. The company seemed happy with the results - with the notable exception of Carlotta, who was still complaining about the size of her part - and the orchestra had finally gotten to grips with the music. Piangi had mastered his more difficult phrases and seemed to be rather enjoying himself.

Christine had expected the success of the rehearsal to relax Erik, but he seemed more on edge than ever in anticipation of the first performance.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Madame Giry stepped into the room, and Christine was surprised to see that although she was wearing her customary black, her shoulders were adorned with a sequined cape. A smart black hat with an ostrich feather sat upon her head. She was not carrying her rehearsal cane, and it was slightly disconcerting to see her without it.

"Madame," said Christine, resisting a rather absurd urge to curtsey before this grander version of the ballet mistress. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm sitting in Monsieur Carriere's box," said Madame Giry, with a hint of a smile. "He insists he does not want company, and normally I would believe him. But tonight I think he may well be lying. He's done nothing but pace around his office all afternoon, so I intend to sit next to him while he watches the performance and make sure he doesn't make a run for it."

"That's kind of you," said Christine. "I'm sure he'll appreciate the company."

"And I'm sure he won't, but I think he needs it," Madame Giry looked sombre again. "He's asked if he could have a word with you in his office. I told him that you would be in costume by now…"

"No, that's all right," Christine quickly took a long cloak from the closet and draped it around her shoulders. "This will hide the dress."

The ballet mistress excused herself. Thanking her, Christine hurried to Erik's office. Music came from inside, thunderous piano music which was only too familiar; the opening chords of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

She knocked as loudly as she could. The music stopped, and the door was flung open.

Erik's rather wild expression softened as she stepped into the office. "Christine."

"You wanted to see me."

"Thank you for coming. I was just…" He gestured towards the piano, where the score of _Don Juan_ stood open.

Christine raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you were making last minute adjustments. Reyer will never forgive you."

"No, no. It sounds absurd, but I wanted to hear the score again. Just to convince myself that it's not horrible."

"Erik, your music could never be horrible."

He turned away from her, ostensibly to retrieve his cloak from the back of an armchair, but she could not help noticing the slight blush which had crept onto his cheek. He wrapped the cloak around himself with an impressive flourish, turning back to face her. Then he seemed to hesitate for a moment, clasping his hands together in an awkward gesture.

"I'm not sure what's going to happen tonight, Christine. I hope it will be a success. But either way, I just wanted to say…thank you. For everything."

She waited, unsure where this strange conversation was leading. Erik walked to the window and looked out, as if he could not quite bring himself to meet her gaze and speak at the same time.

"I…I freely admit that I could not have done this without you. Before you came to the Opera, I had not composed for many years. I had neither the inspiration to write music, nor the courage to share it with others." He glanced towards her, managing a smile. "But you, Christine, you have given me both. Thank you."

Unable to form an appropriate reply, Christine found herself moving towards the window. Erik stepped to the side, allowing her to stand next to him, her hands on the windowsill. Together they looked down at the street below, which was filling up with grand carriages. Doors were opened, revealing smartly dressed gentlemen and ladies in fur stoles and diamonds. The last of the audience was arriving.

"You should go down and greet them."

Erik chuckled. "I don't think so. I've left that unenviable task to Monsieur Lefevre. As the composer I reserve my right to watch the performance and take notes." He glanced at her, a slight smirk upon his lips, and in an ominous tone he added: "_Many_ notes."

"I shall look forward to hearing them." They stood in silence for a moment, watching the patrons as they headed towards the front steps of the Opera House. "Will you meet the audience afterwards?"

Erik sighed. "I suppose I must. Drinks will be served in the Grand Foyer. I hope you will join me."

"Of course." She paused. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Have you thought about what you're going to do after _Don Juan_?"

Erik adjusted his bowtie with nervous fingers, and then smoothed the front of his dress shirt, even though the garment was not remotely at fault. "In what way?"

"What will you stage next? I know it's very early to say, but I'm just curious…"

He stared out of the window again, and there was something guarded in his expression. "I think that rather depends on how this evening goes."

"Are you worried about Philippe?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Erik turned to look at her, and for a moment she held her breath, convinced that he was going to say something more. But then there was a knock upon the door, and the voice of the stage manager said: "Twenty minutes to curtain up, Monsieur Carriere."

Erik sighed. "You had better go."

Feeling vaguely disappointed, but not quite knowing why, Christine forced a smile. "They'll love your music, Erik."

"I fear that might be a little too much to hope for, but I suppose one never knows." Erik reached forward and took her hand for one brief moment. "Good luck, Christine."

"Good luck, Erik."

3.

When Christine had gone and he was alone once more, Erik went to his desk and opened a particular drawer. At the very back of the drawer, concealed behind a pile of paperwork and a spare pair of opera glasses, a small, square, velvet covered box sat in shadow. He removed the box and, with shaking fingers, he lifted the lid and held the contents up to the light.

The plain gold ring shone against its bed of white silk.

Another knock at the door. "Ten minutes, Monsieur Carriere."

Closing the box and tucking it carefully into a pocket of his evening coat, Erik left the office and headed towards the auditorium, where his opera was about to begin.


End file.
